Does your paw hurt? I ask. Mm? Does it hurt? He won’t say, just keeps scraping his tongue across fiercely.

I’m not blaming God above in heaven but it’s unfair, his not being able to talk. The universe of silence between us—something’s not right. He just sits there, tail whipping back and forth fluffily, its movement the only sign, almost, of his longing.

Can I get up there beside you? asks his face. Well sure. I push the porch furniture around so he can leap into a chair beside mine. Is it suppertime? beseech his eyes. Hang on, can’t you see I’m besieged? You’re hardly starving. I’d love to come in, implores his wagger, steadily. (Haunches planted, too, the other side of the screen door, because this isn’t a request to make lying down.) So you would. But look at you. You should’ve had boots on.

Not that he’s mute—growls gurgle up from his chest, he snivels, he emits high-pitched bleats, he exhales palpably. A person must accept the limitations. Also, my dog talking—I’m not positive I actually for sure want that, because then we’d have to have conversations. Now that would be wearing.

Maybe it’s about perfect, this way. He’s doing the best he can.

 


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