In elementary school I went through a phase of intensely disliking three not insignificant things: my middle and last names and my dog's name, Pierre.
Poor Pierre. Our mother had such high hopes when she put a down payment on, what appeared by all accounts, a purebred french poodle from the pound. But, after running away from our house (for the umpteenth time) and peeing on our butane dining room candlesticks, Pierre was regretfully returned to the pound for good.
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