The thing looked strange, it’s teeth all crinkly and eyes crazy like they were cut out and pasted back in by that fat kid that sat behind you in third grade and wheezed all the time. The description read “Last known Maori kuri – collected 1876 Catlins, New Zealand” and you didn’t even know that there were such things as Maori dogs and now you find out that they are all extinct and you Google it and find out that Hawaiian poi dogs are also extinct and you wish that instead of dogs that all red headed fat kids were extinct.
Bereft of peace, I couldn’t bear the agony of watching my poor doggie’s last moments of life. I turned away, covering my eyes, as the injection went in.
I swear it is the last time.
Don’t fret, my little ochre space-dog.
Dog on my left and dog on my right.
Dogs all around me.
Um … yes, putting a dog down because you were bored of it is soulless.
My desire to sleep with her kept this thought quiet.
I can’t go out today.
I ran out of flying-dog spray.
Rachel couldn’t stand the sound of her husband’s snoring every night, and even worse the questions he asked each time she would tell him about it; “Does it sound like this?” he would ask. Months later they adopted a dog, Morty, and Morty snored eactly like Rachel’s husband – “There you go, it sounds just like that!”
I don’t know what is wrong with robot dog.
Perhaps we should stop calling him botty.
I met a marketing girl today.
Hollow she was, and as deep as the dog’s water dish.
Chocolate dog fetches his caramel ball.
And he is happy.
I commanded my dog to sit, and he did.
I made a dog out of bones.
He keeps trying to bury himself.
I folded and glued and painted and prepared ever so carefully.
Now I wait for my paper dog to come to life.
My dog is made of tennis balls.
He keeps trying to fetch himself.
Phoebe – a small dog who wasn’t known for her jumping abilities – wasn’t allowed on the furniture but after begging every night, her female owner finally said, “OK, Phoebe, if you can make it onto the bed by yourself, then I’ll let you stay up here.” Moments later Phoebe used all her might and jumped on the bed; her female owner turned to her husband and said, “See, I told you she speaks English.”
You know she is the one for me so you’re just going to have to get over it.
I don’t care little dog – she is staying!
Oh shit she’s unravelling!
Woollen dog comes apart.
It was a chilly twenty-three minutes past two in the morning of one late October when Archie, the Johnsons’ progressively arthritic and generally grumpy West Highland Terrier, finally managed to squeeze beneath the fence, evade the gaze of the facility’s security lights and set off down the alleyway as fast as he could carry himself, back to where he’d come from, quite sorry he had ever left in the first place.
He was followed close behind by a great many others – big and small, young and old, stumbling and hobbling – who stuck with him all the way across frosty fields and muddy paths, over New Town tarmac and Old Town cobbles, beneath icy black skies and towards the fire-bitten sunrise that lit up the delighted face of the youngest Johnson as he called out to his parents, looked down from his bedroom window upon a garden of seventy-three brand new pet dogs and locked onto the bright black eyes of one tufty white and decidedly less grumpy face.
We have taught each other so much in the time we’ve spent together.
You’ve taught me about love and hope and justice and I’ve taught you about lentils and parachute pants and how to fold little paper dogs out of any spare scrap you find.
Kidnap the dog and dye it red.
Do this for me.