I have visited the meat sections of the supermarkets at Barkly Square for the first time in my life, and though I haven’t mustered the courage for more than an extended gaze in the direction of the butcher, it’s probably next. The only way I can tell between what has been designated as dog food is by price, unless it has a sticker with a picture of an animal. Being a dog or cat, because no supermarket intending to sell its meat would put a picture of a cow on its beef packet, surely.
I buy zucchinis for me and Snow, and we share what was formerly my breakfast toast, and the 2-pack biscuits that I steal lovingly from my housemate. I wonder whether me being so attached to him is making him too attached to me, and what it will mean for when he is adopted. The hallway is long enough for him to pick up just too much speed to enable him to stop before hitting the door at the end. His bed takes up the floor space that was left after my bed and bookshelves. He takes his special treats because it would be a sin not to take something offered, and drops them because actually, pig ears are kind of gross until you’re by yourself and well, there they are. Like internet porn, I guess.
His front legs are so long and lanky that he can’t shake his body without them splaying everywhere. His tail has hairless lines along the vertebrae from where it hits everything when it wags. He sighs for attention and doesn’t seem to know how to break the fall from standing to lying down. He doesn’t seem to know a lot of things.