Jazzmin Flush (68)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (68)"
   
   Rascal had never called "no stinking cop" her entire dog life, but she did, and happily watched them cuff and clasp Merlin Pope, stealing him off the streets and into the under-funded jails where bologna sandwiches and skim milk were the order of the day, sometimes considered a delicacy.  Afterwards, she got dressed in her mechanic's jump suit, the couthless cops melancholy made as they exited the crime scene, Rascal's cupcake cleavage, not jiggly, yet solidly firm and uncaged--this haunting their carnal reflections when reminded of being on the dangerous job.
  "I'm so sorry Jazzmin."  Rascal turning to the California blonde.  "I was in heat, and your Dad is really nice and cute too."
   "Oh don't talk to me."  Jazzmin Flush with nose up.  "And I'll say this with as much sophistication as I can muster--you're an incapable bitch.  Incapable of having friends."
   "You can't kick me out of the pack.  It's larger than just your California gold and all that holy-reeking crap.  Plus, I think I'm pregnant, and my pups will be your nieces and nephews."
   Jazzmin collapsed.  Bit the unconscious dust.  Life is good when you're under.