Dead roses don't walk themselves to your door...

When's the last time love wasn't lost or found, but merely kept?

The sunlight snuck in through the gap in the shades, calling me from my sleep. The memory of last night was barely a whisper amongst the thundering worries of today. If I had any chance of surviving the next sixteen hours, I was going to need a hot shower and some serious caffeine. Before any of that was acheivable, feeding Bogart would have to be done.

 I got out of bed and made my way to the kitchen, with a small wish that somehow a mug of hot coffee was already waiting for me. As disappointed as I was to find no cups of coffee, it seemed as though the large dog lying in front of the fridge had more than enough energy to wire a house. The dog jumped up at my entrance and I welcomed the pink wetness that might make a fish happy, yet tugged on my inner gag reflux. As much as I enjoyed Bogart's company, I didn't enjoy the constant licking. At least he didn't lick my face, which balanced out the disgusting thought of how wet the palm of my hand was.

"Good morning, Bogart. I wish you would stop licking me every morning." I rinsed my hand off in the sink and opened the cabinet, only to hear a loud whine. I turned to find Bogart nudging my thigh. "Look, you either eat dry dog food, or face starvation. I don't have any more bacon to give to you."

The End

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