11.20.23
Hey there!
Can you hear me? I’ve been howling myself hoarse for hours.
Carll and Jane have gone! “We’ll be back, puppy, don’t worry,” Carll muttered on their way out, but who knows? Humans expect you to take their word for the deed. If they mean well, bully for them. Life’s simpler without words – either you’re here or you’re not. And they’re not. Maybe they read something in their loathsome puppy manuals about “separation anxiety – teaching your dog to be alone.” Do humans teach their babies to be alone? “Bye, sweetie-pie, we’ll be back” – in an hour, a day, a year!
Call the ASPCA. If only! A smart phone for dogs. Why not? Paw-friendly, growl-translation: might sell like hotcakes, whatever they are. Folks spend fortunes on their dogs – to assuage their guilt. “We’ll be back, Bowzer, in a month – but no worries, this dog spa is the cat’s pajamas. Suzy Q uses them. Love you!”
Separation anxiety! Maybe I’ll make a break for it, see how they like separation anxiety. But then where would I be? On the lam (no b). Helpless, starving – a court jester without his court. Bred to impotence – like the Prince of Wales.
Chill. Make a missive. That’s what Carll does. In the middle of the night – even with me beside him on his work-couch – Jane asleep in their bed – he feels lonely – so he opens his laptop and up you guys whoosh like Aladdin’s genie – smiling, nodding. No fan like a fan in potu; in esse they’re less fervent.
It’s complicated, this separation business. Which are we – alone or allied? Apart or a part? “Inseparable”‘s baloney – “till death do us part.” Inseparable until “We’ll be back, puppy, don’t worry.” Can I count on Carll and Jane? For now maybe – but what if something happens to them? Or they get bored of me? Something like half the puppies born in America get euthanized – lovely verb – because they’re unwanted. Better that than starvation, I suppose, but oh! (See Hamlet: “I am cruel only to be kind.”)
Did you catch the news story about two beloved dogs who got euthanized when their owner was in a coma, on her way out? How it used to be in India, widows immolating themselves on their husbands’ biers. (See “suttee”: Faulkner loved the metaphor. Overused it.) Lamentably, this poor lady woke from her coma – to find her beloved dogs defunct. She’d willed herself back to life – this is the romantic reading – for her dogs’ sake and now no dogs. A Romeo and Juliet ending – with dogs.
I have no idea what love means. It’s a word humans splash around the way macho-dogs splash hydrants. How many acres of greeting cards – love, love, love – as if by saying it they mean it.
We dogs tune out words. It’s what you do that matters, not what you say. Did you feed me or not? Are you here or not? To hell with the subjunctive: woulda-shoulda-coulda. Did you or didn’t you!
One thing about Carll and Jane, gotta say, is they put in the time. I trust them to come home. Of course I’m anxious when they’re gone. Wouldn’t you be?
The other day Carll got an email, purportedly from me, urging the adoption of a second dog to keep me company. I’m of two minds. Would I welcome a playmate? Who wouldn’t? These solitary hours can get long. Would I graciously share Carll’s and Jane’s attention, wag my stubby tail seeing my buddy’s tummy tickled instead of mine?
Shhh! – isn’t that tires on the gravel? Carll and Jane are home! Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!