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What a pretty girl! Just 8 months old, Cameo was black and white with arresting eyes: one a rich deep brown and one ice blue. My husband’s friend Anne was on the other end of the leash; the two of them trotted up to our stoop and Cameo made straight for me.  She shoved her nose into my armpit.  She slobbered.

Anne started. “She likes you,” she marvelled.

I dabbed at my armpit with the hem of my tee shirt.  “Yeah, you guys are missing out!  So what’s the deal?  Is she shy?”

My husband laughed.  “She and Anne have a, um, difficult relationship.”  Anne rolled her eyes.  “Cameo doesn’t like her.”

“What?” I asked the dog.  Cameo had her back to us, inspecting the lawn.  She looked back at me.  I stood and put my hands on my hips.  She waited.

“Are you kiddin’ me?  She’s taking you for a walk!  What’s not to like?”

Instantly I heard:  I don’t trust her.

“Okay,” I said, thinking out loud.  “She doesn’t trust you.”  Anne looked hurt.  “No,” I said, “it’s not that you can’t be trusted, there’s just something there that triggers her.”   I thought some more.  It could be the breeder, it could be a past life.  It could be an agreement.  Nothing in particular stood out but it would be interesting to look more closely.

We talked about my work; I offered to have a chat with Cameo.

I said good-bye to my new dog friend, promising to be in touch.  Cameo trotted off to take the lead and as she passed her mistress she brushed up against Anne’s leg.

“She touched me!” Anne cried.  “She never touches me!”

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