The puppy pees, wrong place again.  On a silly woven thing, probably made by children.  Dog urine a karmic serves-me-right for imperial exploitation of the third world.   Never mind that it's my favorite rug.  They are incapable of the higher functions but, I think, dogs comprehend the concept *favorite.*  An anthropologist in California studies them as a branch of feminist theory.  Says her shepherd has managed to stick its tongue all the way down to her tonsils.  I didn't need to know that.  

All about biopower, animal views of our relationship can be so foolishly lopsided.  The puppy almost falling over in ontological devotion to her god (me), submissive squatting on the wool as all microchips in her brain short-circuit simultaneously – still, it's the only time and place I'll ever be a star.  And it's a clear wet message.