a love and hate relationship

Moe,

my long departed

dachshund,

would eat anything,

chew

on anything, bite, eat,

swallow,

gnarl on

anything

within reach of his long

snout.

furniture,

gloves,

shoes, books, the legs

of tables,

beer cans,

computer wires,

sunglasses,

dead animals that

he'd drag

into the house.

an open purse was his

delight.

it had nothing to do

with food,

or nourishment,

or the lack

of treats, or affection,

it was more out of

anger,

out of spite,

for going out of the house

for an hour

or two

each night, and having

the nerve

to actually have my own

life.