I hate being managed. I was drifting off to sleep, sated and happy, floating on afterglow, and then I realized it.
Ohhhh. That was a handy little maneuver. It felt off but I almost didn’t see it. A little twist, a little facade, and there I am on the end of the leash, grinning like a dummy, slobbering and goofy and suddenly aware again.
Chip. Chip. Chip.
Sometimes we have a choice to be honest and do a potentially painful or awkward truth, or to evade. It’s death be a thousand tiny cuts. Erosion.
Flip everything around and try to wag the dog.
Perhaps we should just learn to love our own big clumsy paws and our slobbering kisses.