She had what seemed like a very silly compunction. She avoided storefronts with signs that featured compound modifiers.
It all started when she and her girlfriend had moved in together and were hotly debating whether to adopt a Shih Tzu. Little did either of them know that this incident, and their polarized takes on it, would spotlight their completely opposed attachment styles. Not to mention their existential, karmic baggage. Surely, only someone unconcerned about enlightenment would allow “dykes with butch haircuts” to come anywhere near a long-haired dog.
It was summer. They had lit the citronella candles on the patio to repel mosquitoes and bad blood and past lives. They had saged the bedroom. Was it too early in their lifetime love bond to get a dog? More to the point, would a Shih Tzu, which means Lion, be beneficial during the year of the Tiger? Was it cruel to cut a dog’s nails? Should this be done by a professional?
A short stroll from their place was a little hole in the wall called Self-Dog Wash. It seemed very clear what happened there. You went in to wash your dog, by yourself. But, no. She had her hand on the doorknob and fainted from the rush of colors. A bystander and her Yorkie quickly sprang to her assistance, and in no time her face was licked (by both the bystander and the Yorkie) until she regained consciousness. Nothing to worry about, she assured them with thanks. As a HSP–surely you know what that means, don’t you? You don’t? Should I be offended? I’m just kidding, I learned not to be offended, now I’m just indignant! As a HSP, sometimes I pick up vibrations, and, not to blame you or anyone else, whoever let those intentions, for what else are vibrations but the good intentions that pave the way to hell?, just let them fly, well, they will keep going in their trajectory until somewhere, on this planet? on the astral plane? Deep Playa? Santa Fe?, they hit a target, and bullseye her in the chest. That is what happened to me, but look at me laugh at trouble and pick myself off the ground.
By this time, the bystander had grabbed the Yorkie and run away down Graham Avenue, a place which had Dissociative Identity Disorder and sometimes called itself Avenida de Puerto Rico and other times Via Vespucci.
Self-Dog Wash! That must mean there is an inner dog. That dog is dirty, oh so dirty. Let the dog out! How dare you imprison the benign canine! Self-Dog. Do not question the hyphen. That hyphen is there is a bridge. A covalent bond. A mystic marriage of Sweet and Savory. An atom-smashing moment of absolutely dreadful certainty.
Back home she went. How can we be in love when you haven’t even washed your inner dog? Don’t you know you’re wearing an invisible leash? After that, she had a hard time remembering what she said during the conflict. Suffice it to say, it led to the locks being changed.
To this day, she refuses to live in any dwelling where metal keys are required. But magnetic entry cards are OK, and are below her HSP threshold. The less physical items required to cross a barrier, the less sensory information floods back.
One thing, however, remains to be said. Who is the narrator here? It is I, Yetta the Yorkie. I saw most of it, and what I didn’t see. well, that lady’s neighbor’s Labrador told me the next day at the dog run. Humans think they’re highly sensitive, fine, but just imagine how much better you can read the room after thoroughly licking someone’s face.