As a seven year old I would kidnap my neighbor’s dogs and send them coded notes “come play with me.” My parents were worried, not many professions required my particular talent.
Bessie, my white-faced golden retriever, trotted over to greet me with a smile and a wagging tail as she always does. She’s the best dog I’ve ever had, and I only wish I was still alive so I could give her the belly rub she so rightfully deserves.
I tried to sell my soul to the Devil once.
He told my my asking price was too high.
She said, ‘No.’
I didn’t care.
There’s little sense in trying to ration with a barking Yorkie. No way to explain to her that this time, the man she’s grown accustomed to looking out for every evening at a quarter past six isn’t coming back.
Today I put my dog down.
My arms were tired.
I take my husband with me to feed the dogs. They chew on his bones for hours.
My nieces loved the bit in Hotel for Dogs where Lisa Kudrow falls in deep do do. Otherwise it was crap.
With his belly full and his bladder empty, he sits there in the blanket nest I meticulously crafted for him in the center of my bed, smug as I leave for work. Surely he was napping even before I made to the car.
As soon as she got an awesome idea for the short story contest and sat down to write, her dogs came to her begging to be taken out yet again. She looked over at her husband who was sleeping on the couch like he had been all day and thought, how will I ever get anything done like this?
Working late at night,I heard my dog barking on the balcony door in the kitchen. I don’t know what was more frightening, my dead dog barking or the head peeping out from the balcony door.