On Moments That Make … Us ?

You know your Auntie’s gonna be fine … what about the souls she loves ? Your Auntie’s familiars are cats (&, perhaps, crows … but that’s another story). Yet, growing up, she found herself surrounded by dogs. Not just young men. You know: the hairy boys who shed, & drool, & think everything they love […]

"It's not the light that we need, but fire. It's not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, & the earthquake." --- Frederick Douglass: American slave, reformer, statesman.

You know your Auntie’s gonna be fine … what about the souls she loves ?

Your Auntie’s familiars are cats (&, perhaps, crows … but that’s another story).

Yet, growing up, she found herself surrounded by dogs.

Not just young men.

You know: the hairy boys who shed, & drool, & think everything they love belongs to them

(However do we tell these breeds apart ?)
 
My favorite cousin’s father – my dad’s brother – was President of Ohio’s local Kennel Club society. They raced, bred, & showed dogs. Huskies, when your Auntie was a child.
 
One poor, misguided, flop-eared runt dared to be born among such royalty. My aunt & uncle bestowed him upon us (TG). My father named him Thor. 
 
Larger, fluffier, fiercely sweeter than any of us, Thor was our mascot, protector, & king. 
 
On the island, he followed or guided us through woods & stoney falls & rapids. He hunted with dad. Kept kids warm when tented nights proved cold. Snuggling deeply into the vast impermanence of existence … 
 
A beast to love. A girl to cherish. 
 
When the locals learned we were Atheist, Thor walked protectively proud & assuredly with us through village streets as my sisters & I bought milk or bread. 
 
Believing, because we were loved – & loved – we were safe …
 
One weekend afternoon, my father, sisters, & I returned home to find Thor flattened & flushed. His tounge lay upon dirty, concrete floor; his body heaved. Inches away from his dog bowl, he gasped. 
 
My father smelt his food. Then threw it across the garage. 
 
Each sister hiding her face behind my hips, I felt their tugs upon my skirt pull me down. Grounding me into a fate from which your dear Auntie would – could – never recover. 
 
In my father’s lap died our friend; the threat, I suppose, to one perfect village in one precious heartland. 
 
Years later, even after your Auntie was voted Queen of This or That, and people who adored her found her crying in bathroom stalls, to the question: „What’s wrong ?“ she’d always reply, „My dog died.“
 
Even though it had been years since Thor was killed & she never owned – or knew – another. 
 
„My dog died.“
 
However will we live together ?
 
XO
 
AS
 
___ 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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