A Dog's Story? -- Paws

A dog, who claims to know my name, puts its paws on my knee as if it were a badly painted prostitute so down on her luck that she’s been driven to working on the halls of nursing homes, fulfilling the dying wishes of horny old men with her lips, hands, loins, in exchange for the trinkets children have sent to the grandfather they have placed here in lieu of actually having to visit. Occasionally, she may pick up a buck or two in nickels or dimes the men have won in poker games with the orderlies, but she never hopes for even this, just smiles with clenched teeth and plays angel of mercy to put food on her table.

I swatted the dog’s paw off my knee, jumped up and screamed, “Get away from me you mutt, don’t you know dogs can’t talk!” Then feeling rather self-righteous, I kicked the beast in the ribs as it started to disagree.