Petunia Beloved

Liquid brown eyes glance up at me, her pug nose wiggles and her brow wrinkles; she swings her head around — “Isn’t ‘bout time” but expectation turns to a willowing down and she nestles again at my feet and I think she is the dearest person I know.

 Patiently she sets and waits for the words to still and the chair to move and whence it does she jumps into action for her time – play in motion; white on malted fawn with ears pitched up and with her stout body running low to the floor she grabs one toy then another and drops them one by one in front of me.

 Her short hugging tail raps her wagging bottom and we begin tossing and returning until the sofa calls her for slumber or she is nestled at my feet again as the keys click and the words flow for yet another session.

 And it begins again a succession we play out until the writing ends and the day begins in earnest.




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