The Hell Hound is snoring. When she is reaching a certain intensity, she starts dreaming. Her barrel chest heaves. The feet twitch. The snoring becomes a guttural growl.
Sometimes, she goes beyond the point where she can comfort herself with an imaginary kill or soft brain chemicals of assurance. It's tricky. Should she be touched when her body seems so enraged, her snores become harsh? I do...but there is the threat of a quick bite because I've entered her nightmare as prey or torturer.
Wild girl. Studying her is my favorite pass time. Stripy dog. Not all her dreams are bad. In a sound sleep her tail will suddenly beat. She yips like a puppy. Her boy is home from work for her kisses.
She's eleven now. Not so much time left, our moments fewer when we are alone and no one is hassling us. No infinite future to watch her, my weird companion in this toxic status I live in. The other bookend to her life is visible now. Her hips tell me that. How many more trips to Europe does she have in her? Maybe not even one more, in the Spring, we might be stuck here in Toxis because we can't leave this precious cur, our Hell Hound.
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