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After a vigorous run, my flatcoat always returns with a joyous froth dangling from his mouth. I like to watch him as he wades into the cold lake and, like a graceful stallion, becomes all neck to drink from the muddy water he's standing in. To a dog there's nothing dirty, nor truly clean—it's all of one kingdom. What far countries he visits an inch from his nose among fragrant red needles and paw-sucking mud, nations never outlined nor given their own colors on the maps of the world.
a lost doll's face