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Bad dogs I have loved
Bonzo was my first bad dog. His shaggy fur grew into brown Rasta felt clumps behind his ears. After he bit a second neighbor, Bonzo was packed off to "live in the country." He never chased cars down our street again.
At nine, I, too, was packed off ? to live in Lahore with my grandparents and their irritable dachshund. A year later, my baby sister came to visit and Nicky bit deep into her cheek.
Pogo had an undershot jaw and a sweet temperament. She left soft white fur on every stick of our furniture. She spent my pubescent years in a series of pregnancies; her carefree, slutty days came to an end after a dozen bastard pups. At fourteen and senile, Pogo went for a walk and didn?t come home. We searched for weeks but never found her.
Francis Albert chewed through
electrical cords and a laundry room door, disemboweled trash bags on the living room rug, and emptied Easter baskets every Spring.
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