This is Gemma. Back when I was small, my parents used to look after a caravan park just outside of Rhosneigr on Ynys Môn every now and again for some friends. Part of the deal was that we also looked after their dogs. They had Ben the doberman, who I didn’t like very much because he nipped at my heels, and Gemma the German shepard, who I ~adored~. I remember hanging out in the bar, as ten year olds do, wanting to play the flashy lights and silly noises of the fruit machines. I couldn’t reach the coin slot, however, so an old local boy picked me up so I could reach. Gemma, relaxing by the fire, instantly shot up, went next to the man and stood there, glaring at him. I was protected, you know?

Another time I was ill in the night with fever and headaches and Gemma, thinking she was helping, licked my bed for me. I figure she was trying to clean it for me, because everybody knows there is nothing better than a clean bed when you feel like your head is turning in on itself, but I wound up inched further and further into a corner as she made the whole thing soggy. While it really didn’t help my ills, I figure it’s the thought that counts. The thought was sweet.

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