A god is a luxurious thing to own. If it loves you. The feel of the fur alone is enough to seduce you. Downy hair, smooth. A wealth of hair, better than the hair on your own head, covering the warm, palpitating body. A body so unobtrusive and bendable and adaptable. The god fits in crannies and withstands being held against the chest for hours. The belly of large gods is covered with a light fuzz which grows to full length with time, but the belly hair of a small, wiggly god stays short and silky, much like the hair of an infant, sensitive to your touch. All have urgent eyes. A loving god loves with its tongue. The tongue is alive. Warm and smooth, the textural difference in the sea of fur, like patent leather on cashmere. The tilt of the face and quadrupedal squat set the tongue as an extremity. The tongue meets the world. The tongue meets other gods in the rear extremity. The exchange is natural and honest. But if it is your god, you might not chance that type of encounter. Once it is accustomed to interacting with your nose and cheeks, your god, especially a lady god, will shun all other encounters. The god will be the object of your touch and affection. The god is aesthetic, ergonomic and is composed with irresistible symmetry. The god and its owner engage in a shared sensualism. The hand longs to stroke the god. The god longs to be stroked by the hand. Petting can go on for long lulls, only interrupted by the god’s pink tongue on your hand, face, and neck. Licking that lasts longer than little fits of gratitude is a god’s selfish pleasure. The owner also enjoys the furious lather until it remembers its personhood.
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