Where The Wild Things Are
Where The Wild Things Are
The chilly dog likes to remain close to the vest.
P.S. Regarding the frighteningly practical choice of wardrobe, I'm writing, and it's cold in here, so the evening gowns are in the closet, and Lucy and I are both wearing those jackets made of recycled plastic milk bottles.
As I'm posting this, she's just started snoring like an old man -- the strangest sound in the world coming out of an sickeningly cute little dog.
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