Photo: Keith Kreates
“You have to save me!”
She looked at him, filed her nails, and licked her lower lip thoughtfully. She said nothing.
He hated when she did that, pretended that she didn’t hear him, or that what he said wasn’t even worthy of a reaction. Sure, he leaned toward the dramatic, but that didn’t mean his feelings didn’t count!
“Daisy!” he breathed, “I know you heard me.”
She tilted her head in his direction, her nails continuing to move as if of their own volition. Truth is, sometimes he wasn’t sure they didn’t. Have their own volition, that is. These things could come at you uninvited and without warning.
“I’ll give you my special treat …” he begged. Defeated. He loved his Sunday treats.
At that she deigned to flick her lashes in his direction. She knew she won. She always did. Her patience outpaced his excitement. Every. Single. Time.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she purred.
He breathed. It was as good as done.
Once Daisy got her claws into the yarn, he would be spared the indignation of being made to wear another stupid knit thing. It took a full year from the last St. Patrick’s day for the others in the dog park to stop calling him Gregory Green.
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