They are bona fide friends

Animals are our friends. They do a good job insinuating themselves into the family unit

She's the coolest.

She’s the coolest.

There are two beings, or things / entities etc. in a room.

One sits torpidly on a yellow leather couch, and the other is near the window, across the living room past the Persian carpet and the cabinet of Amethyst crystals, sitting on a futon with a regal comportment.

It’s not far, but there’s a distance between the two that can be measured in light years.

The one of the couch licks himself. The other one, the princess on the futon is looking into the backyard. It’s night so there’s nothing to see, especially for a dog. I imagine the black void is preferable to face to face contact. It’s a nice garden though.

Girl dog.

Girl dog.

The Garden

It’s not a big space, there’s a paved area, and a small garden layered with earthen bark. The bark stops the weeds from growing and prevents your garden from becoming bush. The garden has more than enough Aloe-Vera, because unless it’s in a pot you never really have just one wild Aloe plant, and there are five Night-blooming-cereus. We say it’s our favourite plant, the sad and tabescent once-a-year-night-time-bloomer.

This all looks lovely when you can see it, but it’s night, so what the fuck’s this dawg looking at?

Or Cesar. The boy dog.

Or Cesar. The boy dog.

****

She looks at the fence beyond the plants as if she’s trying to see the other side.

“What the fuck are you doing? This has to be some type of fucking sexual harassment.” The question statement isn’t directed towards the people she’s addressing.

She doesn’t sound angry, but I can see her expression in the reflection of the window. When I’m stoned, I have trouble distinguishing her tranquil and indignant expressions.

“I don’t let just anybody come up and fucking stroke me.” She continues. “Stroke me like a fucking pervert, like you did.”

I can’t help but think that she’s looking at me seductively. It’s hard to judge. It really is. Sometimes I think she likes it.

“Sorry, I only touched your back?” I retort.

She’s hurt now

“The last mother fucker that tried that shit. I bit his fucking hand…” She let the thought trail off. “Had to go to the pen and everything,” she coyly adds before finishing the sentence. “Nearly got killed for it. They say I could have made him sick.”

Her paroxysm of confusion is out of character.

“Make me dinner,” says the bitch who looks at the black where the garden should be.

I didn’t expect that.

Discourso-finito.

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