we slept in a pile, me and the pointers. they are so dear, such personalities, so rowdy yet so nuanced, delicately tender. i was just talking to hilde and she looked at me, looked up at the ceiling, responding to the words and inflections like a good listener, bemused, indulgent, then she licked my hand.

play bite 

comet at his window

nappy boy

ode to the climate march. i wish i could have joined you, but somebody had to watch the dogs.

i watch them rapt. it's a dance, play fierce, with a studied abandon.  no hurts.   old barney conversely bit a hole in my pointer finger when i took a bit of offal from his mouth.  i put my hand in ian's mouth to introduce a nasty pill and he struggles but doesn't bite, and forgives. and i've pried wrapped candies out of hilde's dainty craw, she clamps like the devil, but no bite. barney and i made up, but i thwopped him on the head first and bum rushed him home to nurse my wound, he nuzzled me and i gave him treat.
so now i go to my silent home(!) in my sanctum above the hateful thug.