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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?