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Past Life Digression

6 Nov

You seem familiar to me somehow. We’ve probably sniffed each other in a past life.  For those of you who think that “past life” stuff is a bunch of hooey, how do you explain that feeling you get that you’ve been somewhere before, or met someone before? Do only dogs get that? Maybe people just aren’t instinctual enough creatures to understand.

Anyway, here’s what happened: It was a rainy afternoon, and the sound of the rain was making me drowsy. Big Red was reading, and I noticed that her hand smelled great, like she’d just been fondling Spam, so I started licking it, honing in on her ring finger. Actually, I honed in on her smooth silver ring, nibbling at it dreamily. It felt great in my mouth, very bite-able, with no pointy things or protrusions. That’s Red’s style, because she’s not super-coordinated, and can hurt herself on just about anything. Her mind is always miles away, chasing its tail or something, even when she looks like she’s deeply fascinated by whatever you’re saying.

So, I was falling asleep, gnawing away, and I had a sudden, vivid mental picture. I was in a fancy room with a fireplace, licking and chewing at some lady’s ring, only it was a really fancy one, with a big shiny blue stone (no, of course we’re not colorblind; what kind of sense does that make?). And I wasn’t just doing it for amusement, I was licking and gently tugging at it, trying to get it off the lady’s finger without her noticing. One paw in each world, I kept working at Red’s ring, which was looking pretty meager now, while I looked around carefully at the image in my mind. The fireplace room had tables, and there was a lot of good-smelling food around, which explained why I was there. It was a pub! The lady was drinking something out of a big glass, talking to a man, who kept filling it. He was running his game, and I was running mine. 

Finally, with a lot of tongue action and some judiciously applied teeth, I got it off her finger, held it carefully in my mouth, and trotted stealthily away. In the pub’s kitchen, I went to what seemed to be my bed, a braided rug near the stove. A door opened, and a tall, shadowy figure came in from outside. It was cold and damp, and the wind smelled like ocean. I didn’t belong to him, or to anyone, really, so I guess I was sort of a sea-urchin. Haha. He bent down to pet me. I sniffed his hand, then dropped the ring into it. He put the ring into a bag and pulled out a big, meaty bone for me. 

That’s all I remember, but it was such a clear picture, I knew it had to be true. Red didn’t seem surprised as I was dictating it to her just now, but she’s pretty hard to shock. She said that maybe she was the Popess in a previous life and that’s why her ring was getting kissed, but I think it’s more likely that she was just another victim of random, canine-related pub crime. I got to thinking, though… if I stole jewels in another life, maybe that’s why I had to sacrifice mine in this lifetime, before I could leave the shelter. Sigh. Karma, you unfeeling she-dog, you really are a bitch!  

Love Hurts

15 Aug

after

Let’s face it: love isn’t for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach, and sometimes it leaves marks. These are actual, un-retouched before and after shots of my beloved Kittaboo. I’m a biter. It’s what I do, and I do it for a variety of reasons.

Sometimes, it relieves stress, like when my advances on some dishy dogpark dame have been rebuffed. Sometimes, it’s an issue of grooming, and I use my little bat-teeth to preen my Kittaboo into badass spit-spikes. And sometimes, dear reader, I admit that I just like to make the wide-eyed little bundle of fuzz squeak for mercy. In fact, that’s where its name came from: one day, I was giving the little rascal a good old-school bite-down, and Big Red observed that it made a sound like, “kit-kit-kittaboo.” (Every once in a while, that “walking upright” thing actually does seem to indicate a trace of intelligence… go figure.)

Sometimes, it relieves stress, like when my advances on some dishy dogpark dame have been rebuffed. Sometimes, it’s an issue of grooming, and I use my little bat-teeth to preen my Kittaboo into badass spit-spikes. And sometimes, dear reader, I admit that I just like to make the wide-eyed little bundle of fuzz squeak for mercy. In fact, that’s where its name came from: one day, I was giving the little rascal a good old-school bite-down, and Big Red observed that it made a sound like “kit-kit-kittaboo.” (Every once in a while, that “walking upright” thing actually does seem to indicate a trace of intelligence… go figure.)

before