HUMOR
The Bliss Of Fattening Up A Starving Dog
We gave her a belly. She gave us a reason to go on.
You tell me your dog is the greatest, and I listen patiently. Which means, I half listen, or less. Because I’m thinking about my dog, her greatness.
Your dog and her ways are fine and wonderful, I’m sure, but I’m not that sure. You don’t know my Blossom. I bet your dog wiggles and wags and gives you that look and butchers intruders, but does she mutter poetry in sleep?
Blossom does.
Because Blossom is poetry. A poem written in shining fur, benevolent fangs, a paw that reaches for your hand, and eyes that follow wherever you go, the happy haunting of devotion.
“My dog is a poem too,” you say.
Oh really? Is your dog also the balm of Gilead, soothing wounds made long before her grandmother was born? Is she the mighty hope of childhood alive again? Is she the unshakable feeling of home that convinces you home is no fiction?
Home is where the dog is.
Of course your dog is all these things. It’s just that I don’t believe you. Because I’ve used up all my belief on Blossom, who is all of these things and more.
