Rothko is fidgeting underneath the table with his sandpaper tongue lapping greedily. The man looks at his dog sternly and pulls his sandwich out from Rothko’s view. He looks at the dog once again, tears off the end of the baguette and tosses it to the ground gruffly. Rothko glances at the piece of bread and back at his owner with a confused look. The dog growls indignantly, “Really. Years of supplication and constant companionship for lousy back rubs and crusty-ass french bread. I should tear out your throat.” The man drops his sandwich to the ground in disbelief; his jaw follows suit. Rothko laps up the remains with vigor, tail wagging joyously as a tail should after a battle has been rightfully won—with one empty threat and a guilt-trip.
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