The Wisdom of the Little Black Dog

"You are not my mother," she announces as I disarm the security system.
"You have done something horrible to her, and she is never coming home.
Please feed me. The steak is in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I like it
lukewarm and fatty this week, and you know where to find the kibble,
which means you know, too, that I won't eat it."

We walk through the garden, the hopeful roses of summer rusting.
She finishes her business and finds five squares of patio to accommodate
her generous backside. "Oh, right here is fine."

"Excuse me, dog? I have places to be, you know."
She does not answer. She is a dog, and I am a woman alone,
standing in a late summer breeze, talking nonsense to a seated dog.
I pull up a chair. We sit for an hour.


Adam said...


Katie said...

I love this one. It makes me chuckle every time I read it. Is this the same dog from Housesitting: Mid-July? She sounds like a character.

Kate Horowitz said...

The very same. "Character" does not even begin to describe her, however. She is, as they say, a dog with special needs. Most of those needs are bacon.

Katie said...

She'd get along great with my husband. His old manager used to joke that she paid him in bacon. Just so you know, I did ask him before I wrote that. He's laughing.

I also love the kerosene collection pic. How sad for her.

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