Always, she gives me a face full of dog spit, but I love the affection she gives me. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s my dawg. To be...honest, I got so tired of tellin’ the same dang story that I figured I’d put it to paper. Yet, no matter, even when I handed them my story to read, I still ended up tellin’ the story anyway. They don’t want to read the story, they want me to tell them the story. It’s not the same, when they read the story, I guess, maybe ’cause most folks ’round here. "Emily?"I jumped as Father Flaherty came into the room. Despite the name helooked like a South American statue of one of less amiable Aztec gods,hacked out of teak with a blunt chisel. If I'd met him in the street Iwould have wanted to run away. As it was, I tried to make myself small,and smoothed my skirt nervously."That's me," I squeaked. Darn it, I've got to get a hold of myself."Emily O' Halloran? I see we're both from the Old Country, or at leastsome of our families are."Father Flaherty. More

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