Last week, I accidentally took one of my sister’s prescription sleeping pills — the sonofabitch looked exactly like my Zyrtec , bottle and all — with a swig of beer on an empty stomach at about 1 a.m.

I realized it as I was screwing the cap back on the bottle and hurried to get ready for bed, seeing as I probably had 5 minutes before coma set in.

I put Grendel in his crate, made sure all the doors were locked, fluffed the covers and —

The next thing I remember is waking up to a whimpering puppy with the most pained expression on his face. It was 11 a.m. Thank God for the dog, or I probably wouldn’t have a job right now.

And how do I repay my puppy? Tomorrow, I’m taking him for the ultimate Nip & Tuck. Yep, the gonads are gonna go.

I feel so guilty. He’s only 3 months old. He’s never gotten laid, never fought over a girl (puppy) and has lost every scrap he’s ever gotten into. To wit, there’ve been three: one to a walking cotton ball, one to the cutest chocolate lab puppy and one yesterday in the dog park to the biggest Rottweiler I’ve ever seen. (The rotty lifted his lip; Grendel cried for mama and rolled outta there.)

Grendel’s a mastiff (English, not bull) . And because of me when he grows up, he’s gonna be a 200-pound doggy enuch that barks with a British accent.

I feel like I should buy him a doggy hooker the night before the surgery...

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