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It was a difficult run, probably because I’m still shaking off whatever had me on bed rest last week. (Was it last week? Time has lost all meaning.)

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This morning’s movement jam: Prince’s “7”, a perennial favorite and with a good rhythm for the very last kilometer of a run one has to gut out.

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I just wish they wouldn’t try to crawl into my mouth.

Also, I figured out the pipe-tobacco-smelling trees are maples, not chestnuts.

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…the morning run. So many bees. So many.

I believe they were hitching rides, since I was creating a nice breeze in the direction they were going. Efficiency!

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Morning Walk Report: The dogs, exhausted by the morning’s Toast Incident, were fairly well-behaved. Unseasonably warm, but very few bees, until...

I repeat, you know what, friends and gentle hobbits?

He bloody well sat before he got it, too.

THE END

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I wouldn’t put him through all that and then withheld the reward, even though it was soggy and pitiful indeed by the time it vanished between his slavering jaws.

But the damn dog thought it was manna. And you know what?

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But now my heart is racing, I have crumbs in my hair, my office chair is wobbly, and my entire office smells like the ass-end of the Pit of Stench.

What? Oh, yeah. Yes, Boxnoggin got his damn toast.

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Which is how I, utterly uncaffeinated, came to be clapping my hands over my ears and screaming at my dogs to “JUST CALM DOWN FOR FUCKSAKE IT WAS JUST DIGESTION.”

With the toast still mashed in my palm.

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Not only did the dog fart loudly, scare himself, and levitate, but he also began to alert everyone to the sudden danger.

Which meant Miss B had to follow suit.

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Yes. The dog farted.

Loudly.

And he scared himself.

And he LEVITATED.

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So as Boxnoggin sat, with the air of a king settling into his throne during levee, fully confident he would receive his due…

…there was a long, fruity trumpet-blast.

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You see, the dogs had visited the open-air loo, as usual, and consumed some of their own brekkie kibble, as usual. And they had just experienced some exercise.

Which meant their peristalsis was in high gear.

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And then, deliberately, making sure I was watching…

…he sat.

But that’s not all.

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I stood there, uncaffeinated, trembling with adrenaline, gaze locked with a big black dog.

Boxnoggin held eye contact for what felt like forever.

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No, Boxnoggin was staring at me expectantly.

The damn dog was laser-focused on one, only ONE thing.

You guessed it. The toast, clasped in my sweating palm.

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Even my coffee survived. I told the dogs “be about your business” and Miss B, knowing that tone in my voice, retreated to the door. Then she paused, because Boxnoggin hadn’t moved.

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