Ruff Night

Dogs. 

Three of them. 

They are in In my house, sleeping, barking, yapping and whining, speaking that language that transforms grown adults into baby talkers. 

Dogs. Dogs. Dogs. 

As you might be able to deduce, I am not a dog lover. 

When my Goddaughter announced she was to stay at my house overnight on her way home for Thanksgiving, I didn’t realize the canines were in the mix. 

I love my Goddaughter and her husband – but the puppies, not so much. 

I fear dogs. 

I can’t help it. 

Ever since King and Lobo and Blackie and every devil dog thereafter decided to look at me as if I were lunchmeat, my aversion for  dogs has been real. 

More than one of them has tried to, literally, sink their teeth into me and some have been successful. 

I also recall an unfortunate incident atop Stone Mountain, Georgia with a Siberian Husky and my fear of heights and bites collided into creating one scary anecdote. 

I know blood spilt by dogs. 

My blood. 

My pain. 

My fear. 

I own it. I admit it. I’m not sorry about it. 

And yet they stayed in my home and I allowed it because my love for people outweighs my disdain for the pups.  

That is what makes me a good person, unless you ask the dogs – they might beg to differ. 

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