This morning becomes one of controlled destruction as the
dog runs around the house in frenzied glee, shaking the imagined life out of
the furred monster, lilac and grey and larger than a cushion. A rare treat
provided for the selfish reason of wanting to write. I type to the sound of
tearing fur. Kapok cannot be good for a dog’s digestion. To prolong the
activity I stitch up a hole, her head placed endearingly on my lap as the
needle works its practical magic.
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