A fresh gob of slobber slowly slides down over the chin forming an impressive pool at its feet. Squatting, knees tucked as tightly against the chest as physically possible, the creature holds this position for what seems like hours. The optimum stance for just such a crime against nature.
An intense, smoldering gaze possesses the face as this endeavor requires the utmost concentration. Any mild disruption or direct eye contact results in shrieks of which the harpies themselves would be envious. The air is permeated with a distinct and pungent odor known to knock grown men to their feet and stomachs to lurch in convulsive reflexes. Finally, when ready, the creature turns, directing its gaze at me. Do I run? Can I hide? Or will this creature, sensing my weakness, take me down in one fell swoop?
The creature’s mouth, forming a smile as wide as the Cheshire Cat, utters two simple syllables,
” i poo.”
Is it possible to love this creature any more than I already do?