Wednesday, September 27, 2017

Stress Shed

The dog, demented old thing that she is, stands at the door and barks at the nothing with hysterical ferocity.

Our admonitions and attempts to reassure her help not at all, so finally I just scoop her up and start carrying her around with me (her thick floofy weight against my chest, her tongue lolling out of her crooked head), which seems to calm her some until we finally settle on the couch to watch TV.

She's alright for a while, still keeping a watchful eye on the door for whatever her calcifying brain thinks is coming, but eventually her vigilance turns to agitation, and she's squirming on my lap, twisting and whining.

When I finally let her down I am covered in a thin scum of gray fur, and she staggers back to the door to confront her incorporeal pursuer again.
One year ago: I'm An Object Lesson
Two years ago: Final Push
Three years ago:"We Haven't Had That Spirit Here Since 1969"
Four years ago: That's Not What I Asked

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