It’s cold out. But time for Pug to do his duty.
He blinks big soft eyes at me as if to say, out there?
Small scoot with foot to help him out.
The snow is thick. We’ve shoveled trenches from the house to the gate at the driveway. The pug paces in the trench like a solider.
The walls of the trench are pee-stained. From the pug, the shitzu, the boston terrier. The pug takes his time. Then puts his face in the snow, the yellow snow, and emerges tongue out of his mouth doing a wild shimmy. Yuck, stop tasting pee! I yell. His computer-like-brain ( monkey with a broken abacus ) sorts the info while he aligns for a counter attack pee. He turns right no-not good enough more to the - leg lifts, he stumbles a bit. Steam wafts and the walls cave a little.
He trots for the door, blinking threw snowflakes.
Old fool, I say. But fondly.
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