Marie.  What a sweet name.  Conjures up a nice Catholic dog.  Ave Maria.  Maybe with some yummy dog treats for me.  Hail Mary all full of grace.  Probably homemade this a.m.  Possibly wrapped in bacon.  A pup in a blanket.  I was drooling.  Now I know not to judge a dog by her name!  First off, at a glance, I thought she was a raccoon, then a fox, then maybe a dog.  I was confused.  I was trying to suss it all out.  Was she a cross breed,  a daccoon, like a zorse, a confounded mutt or just more mixed up than me?  Then she went for the jugular.  She lunged.  (Hey, this is my house.)  I was caught off guard.  My back was to the wall.  Thank God she is small.  She was Cujo.  She was Cain.  I was off balance.  What a mane!  Repeat.  Last weekend it was a dachshund.  She snapped.  Teeth like a crocodile.  She caught air.  My throat was safe.  Momentarily.  What is it with these small dogs?  Then Eileen stepped in and made a peace offering.  Some cheese.  Cujo fled.  Marie emerged.  She did tricks for cheese.  I could have pounced.  I thought of pinning her to the ground, but the smell of cheese made me forget.  And I sat, like a good pup, in hopes of a taste.  She apologized.  Then she sang an off-key version of, “I ain’t nothing but a hound dog,” which was a sight to see and a little hard on the ears.

Ella had my back. You know how she likes to referee.

What a dog won’t do for a treat.  I am a gracious host.

Marie, aka Cujo, takes a beautiful photo.

Stella, her sister, is remarkable.  She is blind.

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