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A Big Little Life: A Memoir of a Joyful DogTrixie pranced to the reception desk, and the women there cooed and fussed over her. After giving me an IБЂ™m-all-right-Dad look over her shoulder, she went with a veterinary assistant through a swinging door, where she would not find the promised party. At home, with more than five hours to kill before we would have our girl back and hear what surgery she might require, I could not concentrate to write. I could pass the time doing correspondence, a mountain of which looms constantly in a writerБЂ™s life, or I could spend the morning sulking in an armchair, looking through magazines, and binge-eating cookies. By cookies, I mean the human kind, not the dog kind; this was not a self-punishing Freudian guilt-fest. As I stuffed myself with cookies, I did to some degree consider it a form of penance for deceiving the Trickster: If I keep this up, IБЂ™m going to be gross, IБЂ™m going to be as disgusting as Jabba the Hutt, the Beautiful People of Newport Beach will recoil from me in revulsion, and thatБЂ™s exactly what I deserve ...» | Код для вставки книги в блог HTML
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