The bad dog

She never really liked me. She was my wife’s dog from before I knew her, a rangy street mutt from St. Kitt’s who looked like a cross between a pointer and a whippet (many people guessed greyhound, especially when they’d seen her run). When I first arrived on the scene there was also a German Shepherd, a formerly abused rescue, who when I met her wanted to bite me; for a while whenever I spoke sweetly to her she would lower her head and show her teeth, just a little, very discreetly like a spiv giving a warning glimpse of his blade. In time the Shepherd came to love me and rub on me and demand my attention and try and get me to share such excitements as she found. But Sweetie never did any of that, and appeared only to want two things from me: the butler services she seemed to think I had been hired to perform, and my humiliation.

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