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My puppy’s stalking snowflakes, back and snout forming a long, gray line against a wet, white yard. An hour ago she sat on the arm of the couch, her front paws on the carpet and my husband commented lovingly, “She looks like a vulture.”
Sick people need puppies. I hope to be fully healthy by the time this column goes to print, but this past week I have been stuck at home coughing. I seem to have caught the same cold as everyone else, though it has hit me a little harder, maybe because I’m five-months pregnant.
Anyhow, between fits, I would stare drowsily at my youthful Great Dane, Pique, who is a warm, 90-pound cartoon.
She sleeps on her back, her limbs immodestly akimbo, her jowls sagging over her face.
She pounces on spiders, which is terribly unfair – it’s like South America swooping down on a baked ham.
When I’m on the couch, drinking another God-forsaken cup of tea, she sits on my lap, her butt on my thighs, her hind legs sprawled over my knees, her front paws on the ground and the last remaining quarter of a gutted, blue bunny in her mouth.
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