When thwarted in her simple requests -- more biscuits, additional time to sniff that deliciously stinky spot, will everybody just sit on the couch already -- the small dog pipes up.
She has a filthy vocabulary. Swears like a sailor, which is to say that the apple does not fall too far from the tree.
Denied what's owed her, she'll snort, "Where's my #$%ing biscuit?!" Sometimes it's just, "Mother-#@#s!" when we don't -- you know -- recognize her needs.
When particularly exasperated, she does an open-mouthed loud breathing reminiscent of the non-vocal communications of teenagers.
Like a teen, she relies heavily on sarcasm. The set of her ears will proclaim, "Yeah, right," when told that we will be right back.
The small dog is a rare barker, though when she does speak, it's a deep, resonant sound for such a diminutive creature. Mostly, she uses an eloquent variety of sneezes, snorts, huffs, and sighs to communicate.
There are at least three kinds of sighs: the mild, Eeyore "How Like Them" sigh; the lengthy sigh of general acceptance when she retreats to her dogbed (usually involving a long-drawn-out curse word, "sh!#$%^*&%^!!."); and, finally, a dramatic, throbbing, eloquently tragic sigh that makes me think a little of Sarah Bernhardt.
When we return -- after five minutes or five hours, it doesn't matter -- she races around at a ridiculous rate of speed, sometimes forgetting herself so far as to leap up on a leg.
She will hunt up the biscuit she'd been saving (in case we never returned) and chew it as if gobbling up her own worry.
Sometimes, for no external reason I can figure, she'll make a querulous, yodeling cry as she dashes underfoot during the homecoming excitement. Pure emotion, but is it whining? Some variant on, "You g.d. jerks! Oh! I was so f$^*ing worried!" Is it a song of thanksgiving?
Or is it simply a new way to demand that we fork over the dog-biscuits, "Posthaste, Moth@#$$s!"?
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