Hotdogs

Lapping. I woke to the sounds of furious lapping. Then a bang. More lapping. I find the dog drinking from the toilet bowl. I check her water. Plenty there. But, she is standing at the toilet bowl, looking at me as if I have again let her down.

Now I know why the term bitch is considered foul language. This dog is epic passive aggressive. I’m pretty sure she’s gas lighting me. “Can’t you see, woman? There’s no water in the bowl.” I see water in the bowl. I am tempted to reach down and touch it. I say, “here I’ll prove it, to you.” She raises and eyebrow in reply, “Oh, I see you just filled it. I’ll have some, thanks. I was feeling a bit dehydrated.” Gas lighting…. She’s good at it.

I note that she’s delicately licked clean each morsel of the high dollar dog food in her food bowl. Licked it clean of the potted meat I stirred in, because she won’t eat. She won’t even eat the 3 dollar cans of wet food I purchased. The first night I mixed it in she ate with great fervor. I cleaned the bowl and placed her dry food in it the following morning. When it was still there at supper time and the following morning, I added more wet food. Nothing… a mere snub with barely a sniff. I resorted to one full can of delectable wet food. Nothing, not even a walk by half glance, with a nose turn. That’s what led to the hot dogs and now the potted meat.

She hates me. My dad argues that she loves me and misses me when I’m gone. I took her to his place, thinking I would see if she just needed to run free or if indeed she was sick. She frolicked. The damn dog frolicked. And, then promptly ate 3 hotdogs. Every time I went inside, she ran to the door and whined. I told my dad it was because she wanted to come in and pee on everything. He said, no, it’s because she misses you. She wants you. She might even love you. So, I sat on the back porch. She laid on the back porch. Dad grinned at his wisdom. I came home. She ate two more hotdogs. I refilled her bowl with expensive cuisine. She peed on my sofa and the chair. The dog food, the brand her previous owner specifically requested she remain on, sat untouched.

Well, I’m here right now. I’m not feeling the love. She poses as if I’ve yelled at her, though I’ve said nothing. With head bowed, tail tucked she shame walks to her bed. How can she treat me like this? Assault me with her reverse psychology; try to make this all about her.

She’s a re-home for crying out loud. I brought her here to be my buddy. I bought her things. I let her sleep under my covers, something I have never done. She started this by peeing on my bed. She pee’d on my bed! Everything would have been just fine, if she hadn’t gifted me with that. I mean really! I can’t let her sleep under the covers at my feet, if she pisses on me. Can I? Apparently she disagrees and in protest to the injustice has soaked my sofa and chair. She has my best throws on the floor at the foot of the bed. She pulled an extra one off onto the floor, and I left it there. I left it there, for her. I’m waiting for her to pee on it. She has a brand new dog bed in the wash again. And, the rest of my throws piled in the living room floor, just for her.

She’s snoring now. I’m not. I’m watching her sleep, wondering what she will do next, when that twinge of imperfection begins to creep into the forefront of my thoughts.





“You never follow anything to fruition.” “You didn’t do…” “I didn’t do…” “You don’t know…” “You’re pathetic.” That man I loved was the best at gas lighting. So much so that he didn’t mind rebutting the birthmark at the back of his neck. “Oh, look!” I exclaimed, “the little guy has a strawberry birthmark, just like the one you have.” He argued the existence of something hidden beneath a layer of hair at the nap of his neck. He told me I didn’t know what I was talking about, as he looked around the table full of relatives and laughed. I think that’s why I pee’d on his toothbrush after I found the sexting. After he told me he deserved to be happy. After he said he was leaving me so he could fuck other women, lots of other women. I set the bar, he said. It had been good. But, he wasn’t going to settle. I watched him brush his teeth that morning, with a slight chuckle in my throat. I watched him pack that toothbrush, for the trip he was headed out on. When he left, I wailed a mourning cry from the deepest part of who I am. I had pee’d on his toothbrush. And, I wasn’t the least bit sorry for it.