#24 – The Chips

A quickie to meet my postaday obligation.

You often smell. It isn’t necessarily a bad smell–a touch of hay, maybe a whiff of sweat, just the tiniest bit of fish (the result of your pesceterian diet)–but it is augmented by less pleasant, albeit occasional smells.
You’re quite gassy, for example. And when you’re anxious, you pant excessively, and the fishy smell increases.
You curl up to sleep, folded inward like a baked cinnamon roll. Unlike the last dog, you dream. Or at least I can see you dreaming–something I’ve never seen before. Your toes flex and separate, paws wholly twitching, top lip fluttering like you’re whispering an animal secret to the night.
Sometimes, in the midst of dreaming, you bolt upright, your neck and head strained to the ceiling. You howl painfully, haunted by another life only visited now in sleep.
I could write about you for days. Not at this moment, because I can’t stop looking at you, but maybe someday soon. Your terrible allergies, like mine. Your half brown, half white fur, a mirror to my skin. Your terribly desperate fear that we might leave you and never come back. As if we could.
I know you’ll leave us first. I don’t want to talk about my terribly desperate fear. I don’t know what to do with it.

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