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Lucy at Nevada Beach, Lake Tahoe

“We need to talk.

“It’s about the cat. She’s been here for a week. Do you know how long that is in dog years? . . . Neither do I. I can’t properly do my morning stretches without her jumping on me. Fluffy has no clue how to do a downward-facing dog. She curls up with me on the couch for naps. And she’s snoring before I can nod off.

“And what was that awful white stuff I drank this morning? She’s been stealing my chicken. I’m going after her stuff. This is not a pretty way to discover I’m lactose intolerant when I don’t even know what that means.

“If you want me to keep doing those Doggie Do-Right commercials, so you can goof off all day, the cat has got to go.


“Another week has passed, and Fluffy’s still here. It’s time I take matters into my own paws.

“I’ve found her a job at the cathouse in Mound House. It’s just over the hill. Here’s your FOB.

I trust you’ll be back in time for my afternoon doggie park visit.”

Her writing muse lurks in the volcanic hills amidst mustangs, marmots and jackalopes. While hiking with her dogs, Ann stumbles upon stories of dark humor.

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