Monday, May 21, 2012

Little Dog Agog

From deep within the black furball that rests on my unmade bed I see the light brown iris of a single eye, rotating in time with my movements. He is still entranced by the sandman’s call, yet the excitement of knowing what is about to happen forces one lid to the upright and locked position lest he miss his witness of the supernatural. A second eye opens as I undress. (I feel it more than see it as I must concentrate on relieving myself of my jockeys without distraction or meet the floor face to face)

As I move toward the master bath I hear the telltale tinkle of a nametag and license. His head had surely risen. He is aware. He is coming. And yet there is no movement below the shoulders until the scrape of pretend metal on cheap plasticy metal; until I slide the shower door back and reach into the stall to grip the controls.

Suddenly there is a flurry of activity. The bed and the little dog part company as if one is a cannon and the other, an unemployed college student unable to find any job save the one in the circus. His face, cute even while disheveled, appears in the doorway and the staredown begins. He waits, patiently, his tail moving in a circular motion signifying great anticipation. I can taunt him no more. I pull the knob thingy and water gushes forth. From high up on the wall. From where there had been no water moments before.

He stands like an ebon statuary, eyes pinned to the gush, head cocked ever so slightly; and then without fanfare he turns to go, acting as if he’d lost interest in the blink of that singular brown iris buried within a mass of curly black fur. Another day has come. Another miracle has transpired. Time for a nap.

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