I see the way you look at me. Sad and a little disgusted by my sickly disposition. You turn the other way when I drag my hind-legs behind me, or worse, when they give out and I fall to the floor. You can’t even look me in my crusty eyes anymore. You pity pet me, but I know you’d rather not. You’d rather not me touch me at all.
But there was a time. A time when I was so cute I could stop a field trip with a single wag of my tail. When walking me was a whole to-do, because you couldn’t go a block without having to stop so someone could rub my head. Admire my appearance. Comment on my cuteness and ask my name.
It wasn’t so long ago since I was just a playful puppy. Frolicking on the floor. Trying to run about and slipping when my claws couldn’t catch on the wood. I was so adorable then. So little, and active, and full of life.
Now you don’t even take me out anymore. You put a pillow on the floor where I’m supposed to sleep and a plastic carpet where I’m supposed to shit. It’s not that you don’t want to walk me, it’s just that you’re not sure whether I could handle the stairs. And you’re probably right. Four flights is a lot for an old-timer like me.
And you’re goddamn right you can’t teach me any new tricks. If you wanted me to roll over and beg you should’ve bribed me with a milk-bone a long time ago. We did sit and lay down and that’s about as far as you ever wanted to take it. And, truthfully, I’m pretty glad. Who wants to play dead?
Sure, I wonder what could’ve been. If maybe you had been a little more devoted. If you had wanted to brush me more, could I have won shows? If you had wanted to pay for a trainer, could I have had an acting career? If I was born into different circumstances could I have helped the blind? Or sniffed for drugs? I’ll never know. I was a house pet.
And that was fine for me. I had no false aspirations. I was content curled up on a lap, or on the end of a leash, being picked up, sleeping at the foot of the bed. I had no pretensions. I had a roof over my head, an occasional trip to the park, and a bowl of food every night. Who was I to bark for anything more?
Sure, I liked the wet food but you always bought the dry because it was cheaper, I didn’t care. I made do. And sure I was a little upset when you bought Bebe, the other, younger, yappier dog into our home. But I made do. I told myself you wanted me to have a friend, not a replacement. And sure I have some lingering resentment from my potty-training days. A newspaper to the backside really stings. But I made do. I knew I had to learn.
It was worth it to have a best friend. Always there to rub my belly, scratch behind my ears, and rub that area around my neck. I had some good times. Chasing balls, sticking my head out the window, chewing on shoe-strings and lapping up spills. It was a nice little life for a little dog.
And that’s what I’ll always remember. That’s what I’ll always think about. That’s what I’ll always be thankful for. When I’m living out there on the farm.
