Am I responsible for a litter of dead puppies?

I am deep within the throes of MAN FLU!, having started getting sick at 9.15 pm last night; my illness courtesy of theWife. Actually, according to the pharmacist, I have a cold, with my being inflicted with the full gamut of cold symptoms; stuffy nose, sore throat, headache and cough

I'm blowing my nose a lot and as such have already blown through the half-full box of tissues that is on the bookshelf in the end room, the box typically located behind the head of the ikea foldout bed. The box was from the good people at Kleenex—for I am presuming they are people and not some weird Cthuhu-esq malfusion of an Elder One who secretes wood pulp as it lies entombed within its dreaming and a worshipful cult that lovingly tends to the beast as it slumbers, prayerfully wiping down (presumably with Kleenex) its great ichor-slicked and heaving flanks each day—and the box's surface is littered with pics of sleeping or near-asleep cute-as-all-fuck puppies. So what will happen to the now empty box? Well if it's not repurposed for theBoy's craft stores then it will be binned, flattened then slotted into the manky filth-crudded recycling box, a semi-opaque white plastic storage crate we keep in the cupboard beneath the double sink in the kitchen.

Great, so not only do I bin a load of sleepy or sleeping puppies, I squish them first.

Wake up to yourself, Kleenex.