Furious. A joke because you are so calm with everyone.
Except me.
And I make you mad sometimes. I make you grit your teeth and snap like a turtle. I make you the furious being that you are not by nature. And you disturb me furiously from time to time. I am surprised, small dog easily spooked to a yelping rage, excited by your presence, briefly, then galloping off to nip and worry at someone else. But always I return to you. Dog to bone, worrying at the inanimate fall of your shrug. I am something to you but nothing of great consequence and occasionally this makes me furious.
But not right now, as I laze in the sun of a good day, waiting for a stomach pat or a scrap of meat or a small word of affection, licking the beer we shared from my lips and thinking about my next distraction.
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