We started out okay, you and me. I thought it was a good time to bring you home, a playmate for my son, and for me a little company. We got through the little times, the whiny times, water spilling all over the floor, and my olive sandals ruined that I know I yelled at you too much for. We figured things out together, mostly. I could have been a better mom, but I think we did okay.
I can still feel the dome of your head in my palm. I can feel your pointy chin whiskers on my thigh, your eyebrows shifting from me to the pizza on my plate and back. I can’t maneuver my brows this way; I’ve tried. Nothing was softer than the fur of your triangle ears that could hear Daddy’s truck coming home some half mile away. It’s late and I can hear your story again, the one that began when the light went out for the night, the one where you’re not not sleepy at all. A subsonic growl. And another. Cue the cello notes coming from deep in your chest, your chest curved like a bow with a white cowlick spot in the center. Musical notes rise and fall like whale-song. You were singing for love, and I leaned down out of bed to pet you some more, over and over again.
We were together a long time, until we left you alone all day. Work and school took us away. Sometimes I found you on the couch, you naughty thing, and your tail tipped and your eyes blinked in faux shame as I asked, “What are you doing up there?” It was a beautiful game our lonely dog played.