Audrey has dark yellow eyes. Or maybe burnt orange, I can’t really tell. She has coarse salt and pepper hairs on her muzzle and thin, shiny black lips. Almost like vinyl or patent leather. Behind them are tiny white teeth as clean as chips of bone. Over her stomach is stretched a skin of greenish grey, and greyish brown liver spots and small needle teats grow upon it.
She barks in a cough, a sputter like a Volkswagen bus in summer. It takes me minutes to settle her down when I come in late at night. I am afraid her barking will wake my mother, but it never does, as far as I can tell. Sometimes, if I am drunk enough to admit I am still so lonely, I will slump on the couch and let the yellow-eyed dog nuzzle in my beard and conform to the curve of my belly.
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