Monday, July 02, 2007
Whose Dog?
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? the pressure seems to be off and I’m writing more stuff, but I just don’t have the patience for that right now so I’ll just pawn you off on one of my end-of-the-millennium essays. This one was 11/14/99, and it’s kind of angsty. I called it “Whose Puppy?” Might as well stick with that now, too.
She’s in a black designer sweat suit, eyeshadow sparkling gold and green, with a little rott puppy she’s brought for free shots at the clinic in the park. But this one’s skin shows through his downy fur; his eyes are sunken and resigned. He is waiting, exhausted, for something to happen. The puppy is unwell.
She’s angular, twisting, pointed hips jutting and elbows tight. I tell her: the vet will need to see this one; the dog is young and very sick. She feared as much. The vet looks at the pup and diagnoses ringworm: it can be treated over time, with medicine and effort. (Thanks for coming.)
The woman does not want to hear this. She is standing with her puppy, wanting something else to happen, something that will make the puppy just get better. We ignore her as she stands there. Other people mill and bustle. She is hovering, frustrated, and her puppy shivers weakly. Once again I thank her for caring so much for her dog, but she demurs.
Forty minutes later: she is standing by the fence, leaning into wire diamonds. In a soggy cardboard box a dozen feet away, the puppy sits. His gaze on her is blank, impassive. Hers is wracked. One hand paws the wire fence; the other she has wrapped around herself. She drops her gaze and draws a breath, lifts up her head with resolution. She is looking at the puppy like she’s never seen him till this moment. He is looking back at her like he has seen it all before.
