Much thanks to those of you who reviewed the last chapter. Your imput was very appriciated. I'd love to hear from the rest of you, it doesn't take long to leave a review. Enjoy the next segment, and please let me know of any missed grammar/spelling errors that are ridiculous.

Chapter 2

"We should get a dog," Wendy said from her spot on the couch.

Cartman looked up from his newspaper. He gave his wife an odd look and reached for his beer. "A dog," he asked.

"Yes," Wendy said pulling her eyes away from the television screen, on which several puppies were running around and sticking their noses in the camera. It reminded Cartman of 'Animals Close Up With A Wide Angled Lens.' Wearing hats or not, it didn't matter. It was only worth anything when you were high on cough medicine.

Cartman arched a brow at the screen and turned back to his newspaper. "No," he said simply.

Wendy's brows lowered. "Why not," she asked darkly.

"I don't want a dog," Cartman said, licking his thumb and flipping to the next page.

"Well, who cares about you," Wendy snapped. "I want one."

"I'm allergic to dogs," Cartman said, not taking his eyes off his paper.

"You are not," Wendy said. "You don't have any allergies."

"I so do," Cartman said. "I sneeze all the time around hippies."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "That's not an allergy, you moron," she said. "The smell of weed probably just bothers you."

"I smoked weed in college," Cartman said with a smirk. "It didn't bother me then."

Wendy shook her head. "It's all in your head," she said. "You hate hippies so much that you've made yourself think you have an allergy. It's not real."

"Don't tell me what's real, ho," Cartman snapped.

"Don't call your wife a ho," Wendy retorted. "And I still want a dog."

"No."

"It can be a hypoallergenic one," she tried.

Cartman finally lowered his newspaper. "No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not. I refuse to own some pussy little yippy dog with no hair that I could throw clean across a football field. Those dogs are for stupid blonde bimbos who don't have enough brain cells left because of all the ammonia that's seeped into their heads from all their dye jobs to understand that their dog is a piece of crap. I will not own some crappy little rat dog."

"So we can get a big one that doesn't shed," Wendy argued.

"No, damn it! I don't want a dog," Cartman yelled.

"I do!"

"I don't," he snarled throwing down his paper. "And that's final, ho. We are not having a dog in this house!"

The next afternoon Cartman was muttering profanities under his breath as he drove his wife home from the pet store, a yipping yellow lab puppy in her lap. "Oh, you are so cute! Yes, you are," Wendy cooed at it. "What should we name her, honey?"

Cartman let out a noise that could only be described as demonic.

"Oh, come on, honey," Wendy said, leaning over across the cup holders. Cartman continued to glare at the road. "Honey, she's so cute. How could you say no to a face like this?" Wendy held the little puppy up by her husband's face. The puppy yipped a few times before licking Cartman's face.

Cartman suddenly let out a violent sneeze, causing the car to jerk into the next lane. Some old hag honked loudly, and Cartman flipped her off. Wendy blinked and lowered the dog back to her lap. "Are you really allergic," she asked.

"Yes, ho," Cartman said with an irritable tone. He ran a sleeve under his nose and sniffed loudly. "I told you."

"I'm sorry, honey," Wendy said sincerely.

"You'd better be," Cartman grumbled. "And you had better make me, like, the biggest pie in the world when we get home."

Wendy laughed and leaned forward to kiss her husband on the cheek. "How's cherry sound?"

"Apple," Cartman responded.

"Apple it is then," Wendy said, playing with the strands of hair by his ear.

"Sweet," Carman replied grinning at the thought of his wife's astounding cooking. It was better than their personal chef.

The dog quickly integrated itself into the Cartmans' daily life, not that Cartman would admit to it. But Wendy had caught him sitting in his armchair, eyes locked onto the news and holding one end of the toy rope for the struggling puppy, used tissues littering the coffee table.

Wendy ended up naming the puppy Precious. It almost made Cartman gag, and he stubbornly called it "Dog." Cartman figured the dog would force subsidence in Wendy's desire for children for another year or so, but in the mean time, he hoped desperately that her naming skills improved by the time he was ready for children. He would not have a daughter named Star or a son named Butch. He'd change the birth certificates while she had her back turned.

One day, Wendy had hardly walked through the door when Cartman's booming voice exploded through the house. "WOMAN! Come take care of your animal!"

Having lost her voice during the day, Wendy pulled off her high heeled stilletoes and limped into the living room to find her husband seething behind the couch. "What, Eric," she asked hoarsely.

Cartman pointed fiercely to the carpet to a lump of brown. "It crapped on the floor," Cartman yelled. "And where the hell is the fucking maid? Isn't this part of her fucking job description?"

"She's not here today, Eric," Wendy squeaked as patiently as she could. "We agreed to give her the week off. Her grandson was just born."

"Like I care about some illegal wetback spawn," Cartman snapped. "I don't give up the kind of money I pay her to have big piles of dog shit on my carpet."

"I'm the one who pays the maid," Wendy reminded him with a frown. "Just because you're a man doesn't mean you pay for everything. Hell, I probably pay more bills than you."

"Yeah, but you're a woman, so I have to buy you presents and shit," Cartman scoffed. "When was the last time you bought me something?" Wendy's eyes flashed to the sixty-two inch LCD screen behind him, and then to the theater surround sound speaker system she had bought him for Christmas a few months ago.

"Bullshit. That's a joint gift. You use it almost as much as I do," Cartman reasoned. "You don't see me wearing all those diamond necklaces, now do you?"

"Eric, get over it," Wendy said exasperatedly. Her throat was completely raw. She had been talking and debating almost nonstop since eight-thirty that morning. She had just wanted to come home, relax on her couch and enjoy a nice cup of herbal tea. She should have known better. Eric Cartman didn't allow for relaxing evenings. He always had to cause some sort of scene.

"No," Cartman snapped. "Your dog crapped all over my carpet. It's lucky I don't take it out back and shoot it."

"If you touch one hair on that puppy's head, I will rip off your balls!" Wendy screamed as best as her voice would allow. "I will rip off your balls and have them stuffed. They'll replace that portrait over the fireplace. Then everyone who comes into our house will see that you have no balls!"

Cartman narrowed his eyes at her. He gave a suspicious glance at the stilletoes she was clutching tightly in her hands. "Look," he said. "Just clean up after the animal and stop squeaking at me." Then he blinked. "Why are you squeaking?"

Wendy growled. "I lost my voice. I've had a terrible day at the office. No one is willing to cooperate on anything, and I've been screaming all day. My head hurts. I'm having terrible back cramps. The bottoms of my feet are probably bruised from my shoes. I just wanted to come home and relax with a cup of tea, but I can't even do that because you always have to ruin everything!" She hurled the shoes at his head.

Cartman didn't duck quite in time, and the heel of one shoe scraped his temple, just by his eye. "Fuck!" he screamed. He brought up his hand to touch the spot, and it stung.

"Eric!" Wendy suddenly cried. "Oh, shit, honey!" She ran out of the room came back with a gauze patch. "You're bleeding," she said as she patched his temple up.

"Well, you threw a fucking shoe at me," Cartman said.

"I'm sorry, honey," she said, having been brought down from her earlier bad temperament. She hadn't meant to actually hit him with the shoes. "I'll go make you some steak. How's that?"

She turned to head for the kitchen, but Cartman reached out and grabbed her arm. He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. "I'll take care of dinner," he said. "You go lay down."

Wendy smiled at him and kissed him. "Thanks, honey. I know how hard it is to turn down steak." Cartman frowned and pushed her towards the bedroom. It was hard to turn down her steak, and he had better get some a-freaking-mazing sex for it later.