"Why does she just bark like that?" our friend John asks as the dog, wound up once again, stands and barks her high, piercing bark into the corner of the room.
"Well, imagine this," I say ("I'm imagining," he replies, closing his eyes). "You're in a nightmare where you don't know where you are, or what you're doing there, and things like doors or chairs or whatever, even those look wrong, and you can't remember what they're for, and the people there, they clearly mean well, but they can't help you, and you feel like something's about to sneak up on you all the time."
"Well, now I just feel bad," he says, leaning down to gently stroke her fur, and she flinches.
One year ago: Shout Out to My Dead Cat Honey - the Angriest Cat in the World
Two years ago: Growing Up
Three years ago: Fashion
Four years ago: I Spoiled It