Kristin Camitta Zimet The Boxer/Lab Mix Explains What if the chewy couch is my layered nouvelle cuisine, my Café Mozart blue velour veal poised upon slippery risotto polyfill? What if unworked, my jaws leave me as blind as you with knocked off glasses, no limp football snapping back at muzzle, no rope rasping gums, no saliva-slick linoleum saucing the tinkly crunches? My nose is your New York Review of Books, your National Parks pass, it lets me in. Paws are my VISA, overcharged spring for the slithery burner, sky-stack on top of fridge, twin butter-scum holes of the sink. But teeth deliver the deal, close on the contract, meet me in the middle, yield me homecoming comfort, necessary textures, baggie stretch, soapbox tortilla, cell phone gristle, fry pan skin-scrape. Pillow soufflé. These various assurances, their deep discipline and scratch. Cast iron's certainty. Toilet paper's tenderness.

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