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The longer I know Dog One, the more I find him a sensible person. Where others see an anxious, fear-aggressive hellhound, I see someone who prefers that random strangers not rub their hands all over his head and body and who is assertive enough to say so. Where others see a comically prissy animal stepping around puddles and refusing to walk in the rain, I see a person whose fuzzy toes mean that wet feet are wet socks, and no one likes wet socks.

I do not like wet socks, and I did not like them this noontide in my basement when I suddenly found myself wearing a pair. They had not been wet before I descended into the basement, just as the basement had not been wet before this morning's torrential rain did a number on the local water table. Unlike Dog One confronted with a puddle, I had not been able to discern the oncoming Threat of Wet Socks because the wall-to-wall carpeting hid the presence of the wall-to-wall puddle.


There had been other things on the docket today besides salvaging books and papers from sopping cardboard boxes, arranging fans, hauling trash, and shopvaccing, but that's all pretty well academic at this point. Dog One's day not been affected much at all. He's had his two squares and is lolling contentedly and dry-footed in his wingback.

Back to it. I'm racing the mildew here, folks.

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