My Dog is Dead, Long Live My Dog

The first time I saw Carl was in his fourth week of life, a tiny English Bulldog with paws the size of caramels and a head too fat to squeeze through the bars of the baby crib he struggled to escape. The last time I saw Carl was ten years later on Christmas Eve, when I’d left him wrapped in a blanket on the cold linoleum of the vet’s office. A snub nosed shit-storm come to life as a well muscled bag of wrinkled dog flesh, Carl was the very best of us for an entire decade. He passed four days ago, and the asshole has left

in this volume



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