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48 A Confusion Not even a decent pack. Just a pair, though in small rooms they move to multiply. A piebald dog. A dog with golden fur. One who herds. One who gulps each fly that buzzes her, cracking it in snap jaws. Tonight, stretched out on oriental rugs, a relaxation of dogs, dog tired; a doze and snoring. Then absolution: a bliss of dogs, a conflagration, a swarm, unspooled. Odd dogs, chasing the invisible. Like me. A fool, a blaze of dogs, a plight, an inspiration of frenzied tongue and paw; two dogs in a pod, mathematic. An education. Love’s school in wilderness, its muzzled exultation. ...

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