This last year.
Someone else has been keeping my feet warm at night.
Her name is Dorothy Parker.
She is my dog.
And yesterday was her birthday.
Like her namesake.
Dorothy Parker has low self-esteem.
(The curse of a mutt.)
But she overcomes the hardship with her way with words.
(By greeting me with a roar when I walk in the door.)
And she's still searching for her Robert Benchley.
(But in the meantime, tends to sleep around quite a lot.)
I suppose we're a lot alike in that way.
Not the sleeping around.