Khunrum emails: "How about writing about it from her dog’s perspective. For instance, does he care enough about your relationship with her to avoid lifting his leg on your futon? arf! arf!"
Fred emails:
The dog felt cheap and used. Afterwards, it discovered that it had gotten fleas from it’s bearded paramour, whose hovel was smaller and more poorly maintained than any dog house it had ever visited. It sought to morally cleanse itself by listening to Dennis Prager. Finally, it came to the conclusion that the to achieve true meaning, it had to convert to become a collie. But the other collies would not accept it–the conversion was not sufficiently rigorous.
It took on one idiosyncrasy after another. It wrote a memoir that none of the other dogs would read. It would only eat vegetarian dogfood.
It’s conversations with other dogs became very repetitive. What kind of dogs did you hang out with in obedience school? What kind of ambitions did you have–did you want to be a seeing eye dog? A guard dog?
Clearly, the one night it spent with LF scarred it for life, which fortunately was only about 12 years.
On another note, I went to a play put on by American Conservatory Theater’s graduating MFA program last night. There was a lesbian nude scene. The theater was small, and I was about 10 feet from the actresses, who were quite attractive. Ah, to pursue the the higher calling of arts and culture….
