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I write to you amid decibel levels rarely experienced in 21st-century American dining rooms, especially those with neutral color schemes.
Because of the riot underfoot, I can barely hear “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Maybe I shouldn’t be listening to this music anyhow. I hear it belongs to my parents. But that is not the cause of this riot, nor very many others.
This started because of an animal you could store in a peanut-butter jar.
There are two barkers in our home today, and the eldest of our two dogs, Zooker – or Old Man Chow-Chow as he now likes to be called, as long as we pretend to do so ironically – is not one of them.
Every riot has its gory backstory, and this is no exception. Pique, our 15-week-old Great Dane, discovered her voice about two weeks ago, and it was like finding an exciting rotten potato long buried in the crease of a futon. (I pull this example from Zooker’s personal gory backstory: Long ago, I gave him a potato to play with. About two months later, lo, sixty eyes stared out from the crease in the guest bed.)
Unfortunately for Pique, there are few bark-worthy events on our townhouse-lined cul-de-sac.
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