The Dog in Me
Have I gone to the dogs? I mean this literally. Even if, lately, I tend to express myself in dog metaphors.
Let me backtrack a little. I was gifted with a mixed breed dog which I christened Spy although he looks more like a pirate with that black patch over his eye. I was not really wanting a pet and the way I figured he was just another responsibility. Or so I thought. That rascal's charm eventually got to me.
By observing his moods and dog-speak, I got to know whether things are good for him or not. Like when he is strutting around with his head tilted-up, waiting for a pat, or sparkling eyes that are following me then a short but sharp "Arf!". Well, I say, "Spy is happy as a flea in a doghouse"
My continuous use of these metaphors kind of stuck with me.
I describe myself as doggone-persistent despite some people discouraging me because they say I'm barking at the moon. After running with the big dogs, I'm simply not exhausted. I'm dog-tired. Surely, anyone who has had a hectic day can get mean as a junk-yard dog but my bark is worse than my bite.
Now, you see what I mean? Probably, I'll get over this in time. For now, love me, love my dog, and may I add, love my talk.
I just wonder, what if I had a pet pig?