Why I Don’t Worship Dogs as Deity

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Flamenco Flamingo I’m not a fan of dogs. I’ve met a few exceptions during my life. But, generally I revert back to my childhood trauma of having been attacked by my parents’ German, pug-faced boxer. He tried to kill me several times when I was an infant and after maybe the fourth attempt, my mother and father reluctantly realized that they’d have to make a choice . . . a very serious choice about which creature to keep: their beloved dog or their firstborn child. I eventually won out, but, think of the trauma I’ve suffered. First, the ferocious attacks upon my faultless flesh. Then, the choice. The fact that I was almost usurped in love by a militant canine. Surely, I’ve grown up wounded and scarred by fur and fangs!

Now, I live in a region where dogs are generally treated as deity. Why, even the other day, I was at a cafe and on the table sat a special menu titled, Canine Cuisine. The entrees sounded even more appetizing than the human food offerings, and the prices were slashed by 75%. Dogs were served on the patio, right at the table. It just seemed a little un-synchronized to me.

So, it got me thinking about my animal-of-choice. Who would I bring to the table for communion??

Here’s my fantasy answer: my inner animal who has wings. She is bodaciously pink. She’s a hoyden in hue and when she dims, she simply dines on more shrimp. She wears hats with flowers of tropical tones and textures, hats with beads embroidered along the brim, hats with feathers woven into the netting that drapes over her long black and white beak.

She has spindly legs that bend in asanas unknown to yogis. She paints her toenails with sequins and glitter. She attaches cockleshells to her knees. She’s outrageous and contagious and she’s boisterous whenever she’s not the nucleus. She’s vain and she’s wily. She’s carefree and jaunty. She has a band of admirers and a cluster of ladies in waiting. She knows who she is and she knows what she wants. She’s an outlandish leader, with no enemies, because who can resist a lady of such stature?

She fights not for sport, wears not a gloved fist, follows no rules. She’s no pugilist. She’s a damsel both winsome and fetching.

Her name is MysticFlamingo and I’m committed to following her wild whimsy to the ends of the earth!

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