Slice of life: 4-9-15

        Tintin, my dog, lays casually on the ground. He doesn't know that in a matter of minutes, he will experience a type of mental stimulation that makes use believe that he needs drugs. My dad's friend and his twenty-year-old son are coming visit us, but we consider them a type of family because they are really nice. I hear the car door slam, which causes Tintin's ears to perk up a bit, but not enough to have him get up from his lounge. It amuses me, because I know what he will be like in some time, and I can't believe he can go from this to that.

        I hear their footsteps coming up to the door, my dad with them and greeting his old friend from college and his son. Tintin gets up. He can smell them. He is a really lean and skinny dog with shiny black hair and a little white spot on his chest. He stands in a heroic pose, the frame of a confident and alarmed dog. My dad starts to unlock the house, the first bark come out of Tintin's vocal chords. He sprints to the door and bumps into the wall.