Candice Methe-label week 8 or is it 9? The Dog.

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You stink! You smell a pack of dogs. Even though you are small, your breath smells like the rotting seas. When I wake up in the morning, it's you, a bright a shiny new penny. Stretch, stretch ready, lets go! You seem to forget that I have needs, like waking up or sipping tea. You have no cooth! You poop for all the world to see and wherever you fancy, your little pink butthole, un-ashamed. Or is it me who is the uncivilized, keeping you tethered and following you around with a little powder blue bag with fake powdery smell, gag! Must you hog the couch? Why don't you get a job and stop staring at me endlessly, all-the-live-long-day with that expectant, unrelentless, quivering, unabashed stare-down.
Oh wait I love you.....

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