I swallowed a bug.
That is a bit of a misnomer. It’s more like I inhaled a bug. I can feel it crawling around in my alveoli. Well more likely flailing around in the sticky gumbo, like some world war one trench fighter, slowly succumbing to the undertow of muck that coats the inside of my lung. I can feel its death rattle though… and its upsetting me. Die already you damn hexapod.
This caps off my all round awesome day… the pinnacle of which involved wrestling a half decomposed rat away from the Basset Hound before he could eat it. It came apart while we grappled for ownership of said rodent… after which I had to pry his jaws open with my fingers to extract the other half before he gulp-gulp-swallowed.
This is still better than the dead and disgustingly bloated toad he tried eat once. But not worse than the time he found human feces in the park… and rolled in it. That was truly a vomit inducing affair.
I felt I needed to share the (psychological) trauma that comes with owning a Basset Hound. Personally I wouldn’t suggest it.