Lying Down With Dogs
Fetch this phenomenominal conjesture. This time I mean it. A wag of the wand and the restive history sits like a sure thing. Suppositious (delicious) hypotheosis. Like lips could love a rubber teat. Miss stay, miss beg. Mistake the clock’s tick-tock for some synecdochetic-tocking heart. No such touch as specious scratch of scruff or tummy. Name the litter after our best senses—Salty, Sweet, Sour, True and False. Lexiconic misprojections, good is good for ours and only, subspurious as in—if that’s a puggle, my Grandpa’s a cockapoo. Grandma’s a labradoodle. Belly up’s uncle and auntie’s asleep at the top of the weaning pile. Paws is a cheap shot. Make it feel real like aposiopesis like—but never mind. This is what army sanitized for your protection. Mine match the alleles on the leash in question. Curled with the girls like a six-pack of commas. Got my licks in. Got my chihuzzahs. Sure I’m guilty. My dream date’s to dig to China. Tongue to every spill and tail between. Haven’t heard the last of Grandma. Ask any canny canine if it’s rough. It’s rough. I do it every chance I get.