"An inspiring story of a dog's eye view of God and what humans need!"
Reviewed by Audrey Lawrence
Posted February 19, 2012
The house was just too big and empty. Well, maybe it wasn't
so empty of things. There were lovely chairs to curl up in
and enjoy cups of coffee and lots of books as Mary Fassler
enjoys her work and made a reasonable living as a novelist
and an editor, but her life and her home still feel empty.
The biggest emptiness, however, is in Mary's heart. Now
almost 44 and four years after the tragic death of her
husband and young son, Mary finally decides that she would
get that special dog her family had wanted. She was thrilled
with her new Miniature Schnauzer puppy and decided to call
him Rufus. He was the runt in his litter, but when he first
fell asleep in her hands, she opened her heart to him and
just knew he would have a special place there.
Little did she know how special he would be when she found
out he could talk, not only to her, but to God as well. Not
that he checked in everyday, of course, but they did have
conversations every week or so. With the well-intended, if
not always well expressed support of her polar opposite
friends, Ava and Beth, and especially with the help and
advice from Rufus, Mary is slowly nudged out of her narrow
grief-stricken world and start to see new possibilities.
But, with the return of joy and a new relationship, also
comes pain. What will Mary do? Can the advice for a dog on a
freezing cold winter night really help her move further on
her healing journey? Since she wasn't talking to God, maybe
it wouldn't be so bad.
Long-time humor and inspirational writer Jim Kraus has
created an inspiring and loving novel in THE DOG THAT TALKED
TO GOD about a dog who not only is very special and real,
but also has a faith in God as loyal as any dog to its
master. Having his own schnauzer, also named Rufus, probably
served Kraus well in making this delightful little puppy so
real and appealing as Rufus strives to make sense not only
of Mary's life as well as the tasty tidbits of information
he picks up from watching TV. Loving the humour and wanting
to find about what happens to Mary kept me just wanting to
read on and not put the book down. So, grab a coffee, relax
and lap up this tasty treat! Maybe, like Mary, you may find
out that the trick of talking to God may not be so hard
A wonderfully quirky, heart-breaking, heart-warming and
thought-provoking story of a woman's dog who not only talks
to her, he talks to God. Recently widowed Mary Fassler has
no choice except to believe Rufus, the miniature schnauzer,
who claims to speak to the Divine. The question is: Will
Mary follow the dog's advice, and leave everything she knows
and loves? Is this at the urging of God? Or is it something
else? Will Mary risk it all or ignore the urgings of her own
Born in the wealthy enclave of Barrington, Illinois, in
late autumn, Rufus was the smallest pup in a litter of
four—black with white highlights, white eyebrows and
chest. The breeder, a precise woman with a lazy eye, said
that as an adult, he would most likely remain on the
smallish side. That's a good trait for a miniature
schnauzer. He had the look, even as a seven-week-old, of a
polished, professional dog, holding a practiced dog show
stance—legs back, chest forward, eyes alert—all
inherited traits, genetics at its best.
But she said nothing about Rufus talking. Not just
talking, but talking with God. In dog prayers, I imagine.
Though, in her defense, I would guess that she was
unaware of this unusual talent.
And, also in her defense, if she knew of his abilities
and had mentioned . . . "Oh yes, Mrs. Fassler, and the runt
of the litter . . . the dog you want . . . well, he talks,
and he claims he talks with God." I mean, honestly, if she
had said that, or anything remotely like that, then odds
are that the good dog Rufus would not be sitting in the
chair opposite me, right now, watching me type.
Perhaps if Rufus had been adopted into another home, a
home with an owner who wasn't lost and confused, and didn't
need to be returned to the awareness of the existence of
God, he would not have bothered speaking at all, except to
bark at the door to be let out. Even Rufus is not sure of
"I don't ask foolish questions, Mary," Rufus answered
when I asked him of the odds of him spending his life with
me, rather than some other more spiritually healthy person.
But I digress.
I did not mean to cavalierly hurry past the most
compelling element of this story: the fact that Rufus talks
to God. And he talks with me—Rufus, that is, not God.
Hard to be nonchalant, or blasé, about such an ability,
I know. But I cannot leap into this tale without returning
to the beginning. You need to know how all this came about.
You need to know the origins of the story. After all, what
would the Bible be without Genesis and the Garden of Eden?
Confusing, to say the least, and most likely
incomprehensible. Imagine the Bible as a movie you walk
into during the middle. You can make up your own backstory,
but it would all be just a guess. Admit it: without that
opening scene, not much of the rest would contain any
As a child, I used to do that—walk into a movie
theater whenever, and watch the film, sit through the
ending, and wait for the opening reel to start again until
I would say to myself, "This is where I came in." It was
easier years ago, before the age of googolplexes and
corporate theater chains. Back in the day, each theater had
one screen and would play the same movie over and over,
with only a cartoon and previews to separate one
screening from another. Once I got to that point of having
seen a particular scene before, I would leave, satisfied
that I saw the entire story. I remember doing that to The
Time Machine with Rod Taylor—a movie star without
much reason to be a star. Seems ludicrous to me now. I had
constructed my own narrative as to how Rod got to whatever
point in the future he started at , which then altered my
imagined story as the true narrative unfolded. With that
movie, I was close to the guessing the actual story and
plot. Close, but, as they say, no cigar.
As a child, reconstructing a complicated narrative
was child's play.
It is not so easy today.
Throughout my youth, my family owned pets. Owned, I
suspect, is now a pejorative term. I mean, do we really own
a dog? Or do we merely cohabit in the same spaces? The
latter, I am now certain. My father, an impetuous man with
generous heart once bought a squirrel monkey from Gimbel's
Department Store in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania—when
department stores, I surmise, could sell squirrel monkeys.
A monkey proved to be a pretty interesting pet, but if
you fed it something it did not like, it would simply heave
it out of the cage. Neatness is not any monkey's most
I remember growing up with a mutt, the family dog, a
loyal animal who became as much a member of the family as
I . As a teenager, I stood beside her in the vet's office
when he administered the oh-so-humane and oh-so-lethal
injection to a lame, sick, dying dog. I remember her eyes,
just as they went dark. I remember weeping all night over
In my forties, (midway, if I am feeling honest) I found
myself alone again. I was pretty certain I needed a dog.
Christmas was coming and I did not want to be alone.
Before—well, before my current losses and
tragedies—the parameters of a dog purchase became the
topic of long conversations between Jacob, John, and me.
It had been decided that hypo-allergenic was a necessity;
preferably a non-shedding, small, with minimal genetic
health concerns, loyal, good with children, non-nippy,
benevolent, artistic, and kind. Just kidding about the
last three, but we did have a pretty substantial list of
preferences. The miniature schnauzer breed met all of our
But we, as a family, never had a chance to fulfill that
dream. Alone, now, I decided to take action—and
taking action was something I did not do lightly. Unlike
me, the schnauzer, according to the breed books, had
decisiveness bred into its genes. A good watchdog, the
books insisted. A barker, but not a biter. Since I live in
a relatively safe suburb, a barker would be sufficient.
I made a few calls; I looked on the Internet.
A friend advised against getting any dog. "They're all
the same—stupid, hairy, and only interested in food.
Trust me," she had said. "You will get companionship, but
it will be stupid companionship. Like a blind date who
you find out later cheated to get his GED, and who is five
inches shorter than he claimed."
She owned an Irish setter, a truly small-brained animal.
I say she owned it since she did all the dog upkeep in her
family—feeding, walking, feeding, letting out,
letting in, feeding, washing the muck off of it. The rest
of the household liked the dog, but as is often usual for
families, the mother remained stuck with all the dog
duties. And to complicate things, her dog could not be
described as smart—not even close to smart.
It ran into the same glass sliding door every morning of
its life. Like a chicken, it appeared to wake up to a new
world every dawn. A pleasant dog, for certain, but, as
noted, not very smart. And it often smelled wet. Most of us
know that musty, yeasty, heady, nearly unpleasant aroma of
a wet dog. Like wet newspaper. What they have in common is
"But I'm looking at a smaller dog. Something that I can
pick up if I have to," I told her.
It took two people to lift my friend's Irish setter, or
a single person using a Hoyer hospital lift—and
where was one of those when needed?
"Jacob always wanted a schnauzer. Sort of like
fulfilling a promise, you know?" I added.
My friend shrugged, apparently resigned to my choice, to
After all, how do you argue with one of the last wishes
of a dead man?
There were a few AKA breeders near where I live that
specialized in miniature schnauzers.
And when I was ready, only one breeder—the precise
lady in Barrington with the lazy eye—had a litter
with an unspoken-for puppy.
"I have a litter of four. The two females are spoken
for. The larger male is going to another breeder in
Florida. That leaves one male puppy. He's the runt of the
litter. But he's healthy."
I attempted to make arrangements to complete the
"It's not that simple," she said, a slight note of
caution in her voice. "Before you come, I have some
questions. Save you a trip. I don't sell my dogs to just
"Of course not," I said, thinking it was a poor method
of marketing puppies, but I played along. "I completely
"Do you live in a house or apartment?"
"A house. It's too big for me," I said, telling this
stranger more than she needed to know. "I plan on selling
in a year or two, and moving to a smaller house. More
manageable. But a house. A house, yes, not an apartment or
a condo. I don't think I would do well in an apartment
anymore. Odd noises and someone is always cooking with too
much curry. So, yes, I have a house. I will have a house.
Now. And in the future."
"Does the house have a yard? Will the new house have a
Don't all houses have yards?
"It does. And the back is fenced. It's pretty big. The
landscapers bill me $40 a week to cut it . . . so
there's a lot of room for a dog to run. And if I do move,
that house will have a fenced yard. Keeps out the riffraff
dogs, if you know what I mean."
Her silence probably meant that she didn't
"Do you work?"
No . . . I thought I might pay for the puppy with food
Sorry. That's just me being snarky. Sorry. "Yes."
"Are you gone all day? Will the dog be alone all day?"
Oh . . . now I see why you're asking.
"No. I work from home. I write books. And I edit some.
And I publish a newsletter for writers. But I'm home 95
percent of most weekdays. I do go out to Starbucks
to write. There's something about having to block out other
people's conversations that makes me concentrate more
effectively. But that's only once a week. Maybe twice, if
I'm stumped by something."
The precise lady waited, then spoke carefully.
"I wouldn't sell this dog to a single person who worked
outside the home all day. These puppies need
They'll get neurotic without a person—or
people around. Nothing worse than a neurotic dog."
She said nothing about dogs that had delusions of
grandeur. Would I describe Rufus as . . . delusional . . .
would that just be me?
"Any small children in the home?"
I waited a heartbeat, like I have done now for these
last few years, waited until that small scud of darkness
"No. No one else. It's just me."
The precise lady must have been thinking: divorced, or
widowed, or never married. I did not volunteer further
information. She did not ask. Often, when even thinking
about the past, even to myself—still—I would
get teary. Buying a dog is no time to get teary.
"Well, why don't you come up this Saturday? The puppy
won't be ready to leave for at least another three weeks.
You can see how you'll get on with him. We can talk."
I hung up the phone thinking that I need to make a good
impression on this woman, or else I'll have to find
another breeder and the next closest—with puppies
available—was in Ohio. I did not want to drive to
Ohio. Not just yet. Maybe not ever.
I arrived at the breeder's home early—a lifelong
trait. To me, being on time is fifteen minutes early. The
setting was not exactly rural, but I estimated that I was a
good ten minutes from the nearest Starbucks—or a
Texaco station selling chilled bottles of Starbucks Iced
Coffee. So I sat in the drive and waited. I would have
really liked a coffee. Caffeine settles my nerves.
I rattled in the car, more than a little nervous.
The breeder, exactly as I had pictured: precise, wore
her hair short, trim, with practical glasses clipped to a
gold chain around her neck; with that one eye slightly
off-kilter to the other. She may have been wearing Earth
I was unaware if they had made a comeback; hers looked
sensible and organic with a leather strap. I admit that I
am far from being style-conscious. I buy good clothes,
good outfits, designed to last. I haven't purchased a new
outfit in years . . . well . . . since before the accident
She extended a firm handshake, and escorted me to the
basement. I could hear scuffling and yipping as we
descended. In a large, airy room, with French doors leading
to the outside, now closed, two adult schnauzers were in a
large pen with what appeared to be a large, single mass of
wiggling puppy. The room smelled of dog—but that
inviting new dog smell.
"Sit down," she said, and for that second I was not sure
if the breeder meant me or the dogs. I realized that I
I sat on a plastic chair—one of two in the
The two adult dogs sniffed the air, not in fear, but in
exploration, in greeting. The larger one trotted over to
me, and placed its front paws on my knees, and stared hard
into my eyes.
Schnauzer eyes are dark, or mostly dark, so the iris in
their eyes is all but hidden. They are like cartoon
eyes—all one color—so it is difficult to see
emotion in them. And schnauzers are not smilers. Some
dogs—like labs, for example—can pull their lips
back and offer a grin, with a lolling tongue. (I have since
discovered that labs aren't that happy. They are simply
The larger dog, apparently satisfied with what it was
looking for, hopped down.
The smaller dog walked towards me, with what I took to
be deliberate steps. It too placed its paws on my knees and
"That's the mom," the breeder said, not using the word
mom, but the breeder word for a female dog—a word,
incidentally, that I have never liked using, either in
anger, or in scientific dog-calling. She was Rufus' mother
after all, though the name Rufus would not be decided for a
She stared deeply, as deeply as a dog can stare, without
being distracted by the yelping of a puppy, or the whine of
another. She stared, just stared, for the longest of
moments. Longer than most dogs stare at anything, with the
possible exception of an empty food bowl. (This I have
learned recently as well.)
I didn't know what to do, so I gently covered her paws
with my hands—like offering a manner of assurance
that I was a good person and who would treat her offspring
After what seemed to be a long time, she sort of gave a
nod, like she approved, or found me acceptable, or knew her
one special offspring was exactly the puppy I needed, then
dropped back to the ground, sniffed my leg and shoe for a
moment, then walked back to the big ball of puppies in the
corners. This was not her first litter, so she obviously
knew the routine. Puppies grow up and move on in the wild,
and they do the same if they reside in urban domesticity.
The breeder walked over, reached in, and extracted a
small furry lump of wiggle, mostly black, with some white.
She handed it to me.
"This one will be yours if you want."
I held the small wriggling bud of puppy cupped in my two
hands with plenty of room to spare.
"The pup can't see real well yet, so all it sees is your
hands." I stroked the little face with a finger, gentle,
but not overly gentle. It was a boy puppy, after all. The
puppy seemed to like that, and promptly fell asleep in my
"That's a good sign. Some dogs just stay all riled
up—being picked up, carried, strange
scents—they'll struggle to get away. Apparently, he
thinks you're a safe place."
He was the most beautiful puppy I had ever seen.
And he fell asleep. My heart began to sing, just a
little. After such a long silence, it startled me at its
ability to do so.
This was indeed the puppy that I needed to have in my
More surprises came later.
The breeder gave me a list of things to do, and to have
them all accomplished in the three weeks between the
initial meeting and the final hand-off—Rufus'
adoption, as it was. The list was not extensive, but twice
as long as I had anticipated.
"I can't visit your house, so you have to give me your
word that all of it gets done. Okay?"
It was a command that I could not say no to. "Of course."
I could see why she was good at training dogs. I really
wanted to please her.
A dog crate, dog carrier for the car ride home, puppy
chow— one of two preferred brands—a water dish,
collar, two leashes; one retractable, one a strong tether,
the name of the dog's veterinarian, a picture of the
fenced yard, an appointment set for a puppy class. The list
ran on for nearly a full page.
Obtaining all the necessary documentation and supplies
was not that difficult. The cage—sorry—the
crate fit into the alcove of a desk built into the kitchen
layout. (I had been told that cage was pejorative, crate
was preferred by most breeders.) I never used the kitchen
desk, except as a temporary storehouse for receipts,
mail, and magazines waiting to be evaluated before becoming
recyclables. The top drawer held in the neighborhood of a
thousand pens and pencils, all halfway to being thrown away
because none of them worked, forcing me to take telephone
notes with a huge felt-tipped sign marker on legal pads,
the ink soaking through four sheets at a time.
I have to get better organized. I mean it this time.
The cage—rather, the crate—fit snugly in the
kneehole of the desk. I added two sleeping pads, the top
one a leopard print, to insure a soft rest. I took a
picture of it. I would show the breeder all my preparations.
No one prints pictures anymore. All they do is show
others the back of their camera or cell phones. I miss
passing actual snapshots around, but I didn't think I
needed a permanent record of a dog crate and food bowls and
the like, so I carried my camera with me.
I'll probably never delete them from the memory stick,
I wasn't sure about the crate situation. I never had a
crated dog before. The family dog had the run of the house.
Looking back, I don't remember where the dog slept. Did we
have a dog bed somewhere? My mother, the sole surviving
parent, resided in a nursing home, and while she had only
begun to wade into the shallow, yet troubled waters of
dementia, for now, she would resent being asked
inconsequential questions like, "Where did the dog sleep?"
She would become agitated, a little, and wave the
question off as if it were a pesky mosquito. "How I am
to remember foolish things like that?" she would snap,
prickly as she had ever been. Some things do not change
over the decades.
I wanted to say that I did not expect her to recall the
details, but that we were simply making conversation.
Instead of asking a follow-up question about how the
family had decided on a dog name, I instead sat back, and
watched Wheel of Fortune with my mother. She could not hear
worth beans, had no use for gadgets like hearing aids, so
the volume was turned up to a painful level. Virtually
every television in the Ligonier Valley Nursing Unit
remained turned to the same level. I don't understand how
the nurses and aides tolerated it. It would be like working
in a tavern that featured heavy metal music. Or working in
a steel mill. Here, all televisions, except the one in the
main visiting lounge, had to be turned off by eight in the
evening. Then silence rolled down the halls like a tsunami.
The breeder said that the prehistoric dogs lived in
dens, so a crate, which she was careful to call a crate,
fulfills their ancestral urges, covered, protected,
easily defended. I draped a thin blanket over the top and
sides. I planned to swap the thin one out for a heavier one
in colder weather. The door latched easily. The crate
provided plenty of turnaround area. The padding looked, and
felt, pretty comfortable as well.
I had not purchased the Kuranda Dog Bed—patented,
orthopedic, and chew proof. It certainly looked
comfortable in the pet store, nearly as expensive as the
new mattress I had purchased for myself 18 months earlier.
That was a necessary purchase; a deluxe dog bed could not
be considered in the same category.
I had an assortment of puppy chows, puppy chews, puppy
toys, and assorted puppy diversions.
Even before I handed the breeder a check, this dog
purchase had become expensive.
Do friends ever give puppy showers? My initial reaction
was a strong no, with a wishful yes right behind.
I was ready. I was prepared.
Yet nothing could prepare me, really and truly, for what
was to happen in a few short months.
The breeder actually looked at every picture I took of
my purchases, my preparations, my supplies, my complete
photo essay of my backyard. She even checked the Xerox copy
of the medical license of my intended veterinarian.
"I've never heard of him," she said, "but he went to
Cornell. Best vet school in the country."
"She. She went. The B.T. stands for Barbara something or
other," I answered.
The breeder brightened.
"Good. I've always found female vets to be more
compassionate—and intuitive. Good choice."
I felt proud of what I had accomplished. It was a
feeling I had missed as of recent months.
She presented me with the puppy's papers and AKC
registration—a thick packet of documents that
his lineage back to the Mayflower, apparently. I had
assured her that I had no interest in showing the puppy, or
dog, as it grew. I promised to have him neutered; perhaps
breeders do not want more competition from unskilled
amateurs like me. "Neutered makes for better pets," she
declared. I knew, for certain, that his papers would be
filed in my office at home, and then lost in less than six
I'm not going to sell the dog for a profit, like
flipping a foreclosed house. He's not going to procreate.
Why would I need to know his great-great-great grandfather?
I handed her the check. The dog was now mine.
"What are you going to name him?" the breeder asked. I
"I'm not good with names . . . or book titles. I let my
publisher pick titles. But with the dog, I thought I
might see what sort of name fits him after a day or two."
"Don't wait too long. Puppies get imprinted with
whatever you call it—especially if you use it a lot
when they're young."
He lay down in the middle of the pet carrier, not
franticly trying to escape, nor cowering in the corner. But
in the middle, like that is where he was supposed to be. It
did make it easier to carry, since the weight was evenly
I had been nervous concerning the ride home, worried
about a whining, yelping puppy carrying on so much that I
would have to stop. I'd imagined him chewing wildly at the
door, scrabbling to escape his new, and probably evil
owner. But there were no histrionics, no puppy on the edge
of puppy craziness. Just a very calm puppy, supine, staring
out through the wire mesh door.
I pulled into the garage, stopped the car, and carefully
took the carrier from the car.
"Show him his bed, his food, and the door you'll use to
take him outside. Take him out on a leash right away and
start his bathroom training," the breeder instructed,
touching on the three most important elements in a puppy's
I followed her instructions to the letter.
He dutifully sniffed at his crate, stepped inside,
sniffing, looking at the cushion, then up at the top of the
crate—like people do on all the HGTV shows when they
enter a new room. I have noted that potential homebuyers
invariably look at the ceiling, as if to make sure the
house has one. Why do people do that? It's a plain ceiling.
Look to see how big the closets are first, and if you have
good water pressure. No one checks the water pressure on
those shows. I have yet to see a single buyer flush a
toilet. There might be a lot fewer home sales if people
flushed toilets or ran showers.
The puppy completed his examination of the crate. I led
him to his food dish and water bowl—both filled with
He sniffed at both.
I snapped a leash onto his collar and led him to
the . . . Wait. What door am I going to use?
The back door led to a back deck, a second-story affair.
A puppy this small would not yet be able to climb stairs.
I'll have to use the front door.
We stepped outside through the main door, and his
sniffing became a bit more earnest. It took him fifteen
to sniff his way around the front yard. I was cold by the
time he completed his inspection. There were other dogs in
the neighborhood, so he took some time getting acquainted
with their calling cards.
I am told that dogs can tell the size and sex and
temperament of a dog by the scent they leave. Seems a
crude way of doing it—but if you can't talk or write,
I suspect it is the only way.
He actually relieved himself out there, by a bush
towards the side of the house—a bush I didn't really
like, so if his ministrations killed it, I would not be
upset. It some sort of a weedy looking shrub that had been
billed as the bearer of fragrant flowers. the flowers
lasted all of three days; the rest of the time it simply
looked weedy. I praised him, as I had been told to do.
We walked back into the house. I unclipped his leash.
"Keep him in the kitchen at first. He'll be overwhelmed
if he has too much space to explore."
Two doorways led into the kitchen: one a pocket door to
the dining room, easily closed off; the other archway could
be cut off by opening the basement door, leaving a gap of
only an inch or two. The bigger problem was the wide arch
between the kitchen and the family room.
The puppy seemed to be a cautious type, so my initial
solution employed two lengths of white clothesline rope,
strung at two inches off the ground, and the other at six
inches, and affixed to the molding with adhesive-backed
Velcro. If the puppy ran into them at full force, which he
gave no indication of doing, the ropes would give way.
More importantly, if I ran into them, stumbling towards the
sunroom with the first coffee of the day and with my
typical morning slit-eyes, then I would dislodge them as
easily, without tumbling down and scalding myself with hot
The puppy sniffed the ropes, and made no attempt to
cross the barrier.
Effective. Maybe I could market this idea? The puppy
stared up at me.
No. How hard would it be to duplicate this? Not very.
I sat on the floor, my back to the wall, and invited the
puppy to play. It slithered over with a wiggle. I imagined
that it looked happy. I couldn't tell. This was the start
of a long process, learning how to read the moods of this
It crawled into my hands, and began a gentle nibbling on
my fingers. His breath smelled healthy, like milk.
"Don't let him bite you," the breeder had scolded
me. "Bad habit for a dog to have—biting."
But chewing is what a puppy does. As long as it did not
bite in anger, I would tolerate a dog-to-owner chew every
now and again.
After thirty minutes, the puppy crawled down from my
leg and sat on its haunches, looking as tired as a . . .
well, a puppy.
"Go into your crate," I directed and pointed at the
open door to his den.
The puppy stared at my finger for a moment, as if my
finger was the object he should focus on . "No," I said, as
I pushed my finger forward into the air, gesturing towards
the door. The puppy appeared to scowl, or furrow his brow
as if in thought, then turned his head towards the crate.
He lifted himself off the floor and walked with a
surprising deliberateness , towards his den, his crate,
climbed over the two-inch frame, walked in, circled three
times, then laid down, his head on his paws, his eyes
He blinked, and let his head fall deeper into the furrow
of his forelocks.
"Can I get some coffee? Will I keep you awake?"
He did not answer. I am not sure, in the retelling of
this episode, if he understood me at that young age, and
simply waited until the right time , or if he was in the
process of trying to understand my speech. I think the
latter, though I have not asked him. It doesn't seem to be
that pertinent of a question, in retrospect.
I sat in the upholstered chair in the bay window in the
kitchen, sat with my coffee, watching The Weather Channel
with the sound muted, sipping as quietly as I could manage,
watching the puppy fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.
What do you think about this review?
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