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Cone of Shame By Robin Densmore Fuson

  This time, the pain didn’t feel as intense. The shame, however, was another story. Rex needed to lick. Any dog wanted to lick, well, everything. Michael had taken him to the frightening place where the senses went on high alert. Sounds, smells, textures, and sensations bombarded his brain, nose, ears, paws, and body. A minor issue of a sore paw and he ended up at the dreadful, scary place. Yesterday, Rex and Michael went hiking in the mountains. Rex loved frolicking in the water and the creek looked inviting. He splashed and played. Sticks were scattered on the shore and floated in the water. He grabbed one and took it to Michael, who flung it out again. On one such trip, he felt a stab in his paw. The cool water soothed the sore spot. Rex kept on playing and didn’t think much of it.   Now, the person in a white coat spoke garbled words, too foreign for Rex to decipher, as to why his foot hurt. That person poked and prodded, causing him pain. Strange, he didn’t feel any disco

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