Jazzmin Flush (75)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (75)"  
   
   Thomas, cradling the precious pups--three of them, two girls and a little pecker, Rascal wearing a lacuna where the intercourse had, months ago, happened and now fully expired, driving her to dreams of Donald Flush and his hopefully triumphant return to her full moon embrace.  And the male scion barked a yip and a yap, Thomas crying, wanting a family; then, remembering Donald's disappearance--was this how it was with every Flush?  They just won't commit to the process of engaging in blissful matrimony for creative purpose, or whatever.
   Jazzmin came into the birthing room, Fredrica having always been there--the former taco roller now holding two feminine, coydog/human hybrids while her brother, Jazzmin's love Thomas played with the male, letting his pinkie finger get a little bloody from the exploring bites, teeth in and sharp already, Rascal's vaginal cavity having acted like a coydog incubator, cooking quickly a trio of mercurial mutts, and one would be a pestering prodigy.  Anyway, overwhelmed by her younger half-siblings, Jazzmin wept.  Remembering Christ and the shortest verse in the King James Bible, it used by Southern Baptists to this future day, Jazzmin not pushing the Vulgate in anybody's face, knowing all the words were synonymous, leading to the nucleus of God, Christ, like Buddha in the middle, yet bettering the quicksand of balance and cool counterpoise by being the virginal lamb.  And as she reached out and touched the male pup Thomas was holding, looking her boyfriend in the eye--she knew:  no matter how much she loved the arctic wolfboy, she was a lamb at heart.  A quasi-virginal lamb, doing her best to retain the inviolate status of California Girl Cool--in a Saintly sense.