the dog days

Date: 2/13/2023

I was an old dog—maybe an English spaniel—who’d been abandoned at an airport. Eyes cloudy and mind confused, I wandered the the building, sniffing idly at the sidewalk. Until I found her. A puppy in a box. She was alone too, and she looked much like me. And I needed to protect her. When passersby saw the pup dangling from my mouth, they tried to take her from me. I would waddle, limp, and shuffle away. But it became harder and harder to keep the pup away from the people. She was young—still trainable. They wanted her for themselves. No one wanted an old dog. Sometimes I thought: perhaps she’d be better off with them than with a sick old dog like me. But then: no, eventually they’d cast her aside too. I loved her so much that I traded in my fur and old bones, and I became human. I had a life—a history, memories. Responsibilities. But none of that mattered. Because now the pup would be safe with me. When I brought her home, exhausted, some people (I think they must have been my parents) tried to coax her from my arms. I declined, gently at first, then firmly as they persisted. When their insistence turned to demands I raced towards my room, still clutching the pup to my chest. A man—my boyfriend—tried to stop me in the doorway, but I shoved past him and locked the door. I could hear the doorknob jiggling frantically as I scanned the room. My only option was the window. Sticking my head out, I observed the drop. It was far, but below us was an ocean. And so the pup and I leapt out into the water. And as we sank into the crystal clear depths, I looked at the pup and I thought: surely they will be better off. I am no good to them when I have you.