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Tell me about your dog
bonus if your banner pic is the dog- no dying dogs no sad dogs- just tell me about your dog... a lil biography of a dog you have or had and why he or she is worthy to be written about. One winner will be chosen- but I also sling juice.
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7v7 in Words
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...One More Dog

I'm thinking about having a dog.

I can think of lots of good reasons, worthy.

I'm thinking maybe a Whippet or a Frenchie, or a favorable mix, because that would match the family lifestyle. It would be good to care for a dog, young or old.

Having my eye on this, someday, I noticed a bulldog-pooch pic lockscreen on my co-workers phone the other day. I don't remember her name. We run into each other like once a year. It's a big company. I was displaced momentarily on call at one of our sprawling locations.

"Is that your dog?" I ventured, stricken. It could after all have only been some cute wallpaper stock.

"Yeaah, that's our Lavendar," she beamed behind tinted glasses, and touched me. On the arm, like we were friends. A sort of pet.

I'm not against touch. There's just something about some people's touch that takes something from you. That's what I felt. I hoped it didn't show on my face.

"Is it a bulldog, Frenchie; or a Boxer... or a mix...?" I said displacing my disturbance with sincere interest, small talk. I had only seen the picture for a couple seconds.

"Both! how did you know?! but she's on the small side. Takes after the French Bulldog more, right?"

"Oh, I love Frenchies," I added remembering a delightful monograph I'd read in which the writer/enthusiast said Frenchies are like potato chips... you can't have just one... and that is saying a lot...

She interrupted my thinking: "But I told my family No More. No more babies, no more puppies. No more rescues. No more. And I can't deal with either end," she said sweeping the bangs off her brow, and holding her temple like staving off a migraine.

My visuals all over the place, but I tried to keep pace: "Uh, huh."

She touched me again.

"I just can't deal with the potty training, or the incontinence. I can't. I'm DONE."

I nodded, sympathizing, for her as much as for her charges.

She looked about 65, though, it's not age that matters. She faded good humoredly.

"You're right," I thought to myself: "Best save your strength-- for when you need it."

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