Stalker

My damned dog is stalking me. I had these fantastically soothing dreams of me sitting in my lovely apartment in France enjoying long afternoons of espresso and literature while the kids were at school . . . So here I sit in my lovely apartment. I've got a good cup of coffee and a good book. Only problem is, my dog has been following me around all morning long with a forlorn abused pet look on her face. When I move to the kitchen, she follows me. If I wander into the study, she's there tagging behind. If I happen to glance up, there are those penetrating eyes accusing me: You know you've been ignoring me all morning. You know you need to walk me. You know I need to poop. And I ask so little of you.

I can't stand it anymore. It's downright creepy. I'm not alone in my apartment. There is someone watching me. And the worst of it is, just behind the dog's awful complaints, I hear my mother-in-laws allegations: You bad-dog-owner, you. Lazy girl, sitting around reading all day when the dog's bladder is bursting . . .
Who needs the condemnation of Sartre when you have a pet to castigate you?