Growl!
Fair warning, puppy’s in a foul mood. That’s foul with a u not double-u. Birds have fowl moods. Horses have foul moods if you mispronounce it. Voles have vole moods. (Has anyone ever seen a vole? Only my nose knows they’re there.)
Extract me, please, from this word soup – and humanity too. That may be humans’ problem – words. Somebody once said that all of humanity’s problems could be traced to definitions, one of those hairy worthies Carll keeps citing, maybe Pascal, though it could be Kierkegaard. Humans can’t greet the dawn without spelling it. Hail! Howl! Heel! Puts you in a pet (as in “fit of peevishness or ill humor”) as opposed to pet (as in a “domestic animal… kept for pleasure,” namely me).
Does language evince human genius (as they crow) or that terrible moment, maybe two hundred thousand years ago, when their species skipped the track? (DNA suggests wolves turned dogs a hundred and thirty thousand years ago. That too may have been a mistake.)
Why this snit (snot – snootful…)?
Could be I’m kicking the cat. Because Carll and Jane abandoned me. Forsook (which sucks). For four days (thus, four-suck). Packed their suitcases and – without so much as a by-your-leave – deposited me with a neighbor. I really like this neighbor – he has dogs – and a cat – but for four nights, when, since Carll and Jane abducted me from my sweet momma, we hadn’t been separated for one? Where had they vanished to? Were they ever coming back? What had I done to deserve this? Howl – with the emphasis on the Ow!
You smile at my simplicity. Grow up, pup, abandonment is the curse of consciousness, get over it. Love hurts like hell.
I’ll take your word for it – your gush of words – but why must life be this way? Carll and Jane expected a whole-hearted yipping spinning greeting on their reappearance – “Did you miss us, Henry?” To hell with that, hole-hearted, without the double-u, was more like it. Were they making a joke of my grief, condescending to my pain because it’s canine? To quote Shakespeare (to keep Carll happy), “If you prick us, do we not bleed?”
No, I would not make nice. Yes, I was glad, but pissed too. So I pissed – and pooped – “accidentally” – indoors to punish them (and not just with puns). And no, I would not be hugged and nuzzled, not yet, though I craved nothing more – let them get a taste of their own medicine. Separation anxiety! As if a label drained the pain.
How much did I miss them? Funny you should ask. For the first night, terribly. It smelled weird in the dark. The other dogs were there with their farts and grunts, but they were different from Carll and Jane. Familiarity, the proverb notwithstanding, breeds content. We extrapolate sameness to everlastingness and slip to sleep smiling.
The second night, their absence struck me as curious. I remembered my adoptive parents as I did sweet momma and my sisters suckling. By the third night, my new digs were my new norm. Carll and Jane weren’t coming back, they’d never loved me really, except as a toy. At least I wasn’t among the four hundred thousand American dogs euthanized annually. I had my shelter, mates, grub. Count my lucky stars.
When they showed up finally – out of nowhere – I blinked – as if they’d stepped out of a dream. I sniffed – they smelt like them – but not so fast with the hoopla. Once bitten, twice shy.
We’re better now.