Status Updates From Shakespeare's Dog

...he would regret his claims-making once he was milked past his fevering pitch.

Wild and wacky; quite enjoyable so far.

"And does the plague have soul?" I'd sometimes ask of myself. To which I'd reply that it was a stinking maggoty world in some regard, but that the true war was one with time. If the Spaniards didn't blow us all up with their cannonballs and Rome didn't tilt over with stored gold and England didn't kill us with its queenly farts, then mercy would out and the soul's plume endure.

"Snecke up!"--which meant "Go hang yourself" in the Stratford tongue. "Go hang yourself, wretch born to lead apes and women into hell!"
And this when--behold!--a fig's turn later they'd be all dovecoat-trundled, honey-bucketed, cooing love notes cheek to cheek and chirp for chirp.
"Ahh, buss me, Will!"
"Ahh, my back's hot for thee, Anne!"
"Stoke me, Will!"
"Thou art a moist one, thou art!"

That spongy, water-licking Wolfsleach was down on the grass doing sport with Marr, and when he saw me romping toward him with choppers flaring, he whirled in gummy panic and gave Marr a great kick in her hind parts that sent her spinning over on all fours, whimpering her sorrows at pleasure abated and leaking drool from her yellow mouth. Agh, you wretch, I thought, you thrush-throated, humping dog; oh, the Devil...