You know by now there are things the very sight of which will make my skin crawl. To a greater or lesser degree these include the leash, (kind of a love-hate relationship—I don’t like it, but it means I’m getting out of the house), the groomer’s van, (by the time I actually see it I’m practically inside it, so maybe I should direct my animosity more toward the groomer himself, or the sound the doorbell makes when he rings it, I don’t know, I need to think about that one some more), Mork and/or Mindy—my dad’s names for the two Sharpei’s next door whose real names are Ming and Mai, and the really old guy who walks up and down the street every day, looks and smells like a zombie, awful.
All of these are unpleasant but bearable. They pose no threat to my accustomed way of life. In fact, they offer the opportunity of a little entertainment from time to time. Barking at the old guy when he walks past my gate or going after the wrinkly mutts next door through the fence, for instance. But there is one thing, actually a few of them it turns out, different shapes and sizes, all diabolical, that not only make my skin crawl, but my hair stand up and my stomach turn. I believe they are called ‘suitcases’.
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