Orlando walked around blankly, not realizing what had happened to him, why his butt was wet and his lover had started walking.
"That wasn't nice of her," I said to Jean Paul.
"It's this or killing eight dog pups."
"Why killing them?"
"Nobody wants a cross between a German shepherd and a boxer."
Maybe that was true.
How do dog puppies be killed, I wondered. Auch.
It was not likable that utter dog happiness was disrupted that brutal way, but I had to admit: a cross between a boxer and a sheepdog? What is that?
"What if they cross you and me?" Jean Paul asked, wanting my attention back.
"Hmmmmm."
I thought about that. With his beautiful brown puppy eyes. His jet black hair is like an Italian's. His muscled torso as if it were he who mowed all the grass on the huge farm pasture with a scythe in the summer and turned it several times daily with a fork until it became hay.
"I don't know about my half, but your half is undoubtedly wonderfully beautiful," I said.
He kissed me, full on the lips, forceful, gooey.
"You make beautiful children," I said.
