Angie. Where could a person start when introducing Angie. Angie is a dog. A black dog. When she goes for a walk her tail conducts unseen orchestras as she trots high with bliss in her step. In the morning by the creek when the sun glances off her *very* shiny coat, red, yellow and even purple are scattered through the shine.
She doesn't like dogs though. Most dogs. Big dogs. And small dogs. She will tuck her tail in, down hard and tight against her herself and she'll spin madly, hissing like a cat, to stop the dog getting behind her. She bares not her fangs but the front of her mouth. When she thinks she's being attacked she lets out a scream. Not a yelp, not a bark, but a scream, long and unbroken. That's when dogs usually walk away, and if they could do it, I'm sure they'd be rubbing their forehead in puzzlement at such a strange creature.
But then there are the dogs that pretend to ignore her. She likes them. She likes manners. She'll walk past, and if they ignore her, or simply stop and watch her, she launches low on to her front paws. Butt and tail high in the air, head aligned with teh floor. If the dog joins her, she'll run, round and round, and round and round, head high, joy in her teeth. And anyone watching would swear, that if dogs could do it, she'd be most definitely grinning from ear to ear.
So that's Angie. High spirited, strange, and brimful with character. And smart. She interacts as though she can talk. When you talk to her, she cocks her head. If she's asked to do something she'll figure it out by trial, eyes wide, mouth open and grinning. That's Angie, my crazy, sensitive, funny little companion who lies next to me when I write. Who tries to talk to me when she's bored. Who kicks her water bowl around when it's empty until it's filled. Who lies on her back and throws socks in the air and catches them with her paws which she uses like mits. Who's greedy like a garbage dog. Who hates dogs and is scared of cats. That's Angie.
She doesn't like dogs though. Most dogs. Big dogs. And small dogs. She will tuck her tail in, down hard and tight against her herself and she'll spin madly, hissing like a cat, to stop the dog getting behind her. She bares not her fangs but the front of her mouth. When she thinks she's being attacked she lets out a scream. Not a yelp, not a bark, but a scream, long and unbroken. That's when dogs usually walk away, and if they could do it, I'm sure they'd be rubbing their forehead in puzzlement at such a strange creature.
But then there are the dogs that pretend to ignore her. She likes them. She likes manners. She'll walk past, and if they ignore her, or simply stop and watch her, she launches low on to her front paws. Butt and tail high in the air, head aligned with teh floor. If the dog joins her, she'll run, round and round, and round and round, head high, joy in her teeth. And anyone watching would swear, that if dogs could do it, she'd be most definitely grinning from ear to ear.
So that's Angie. High spirited, strange, and brimful with character. And smart. She interacts as though she can talk. When you talk to her, she cocks her head. If she's asked to do something she'll figure it out by trial, eyes wide, mouth open and grinning. That's Angie, my crazy, sensitive, funny little companion who lies next to me when I write. Who tries to talk to me when she's bored. Who kicks her water bowl around when it's empty until it's filled. Who lies on her back and throws socks in the air and catches them with her paws which she uses like mits. Who's greedy like a garbage dog. Who hates dogs and is scared of cats. That's Angie.
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