August 29, 2017
A woman of her word is my landlady. When she adopted me she saw me for who I was, a blue-collar working dog. If I were human, she said, I would be a biker chick and drive a blue pickup truck with my right hand and flip people off with my left. I’d be able to dance in high heels and drink more than one glass of Chablis without, as she does, ricocheting off the furniture like a wayward pinball. So she vowed to provide me with only bare necessities. No sissy-dog, girly-girl stuff. I must remain focused and productive. Thus, my pool because a dog with hot paws is not a productive dog. In this way, I am productive. Mostly naps and the eating of dog food.
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