Inspired by “What It Is” by Joan Connor
They met at a shelter. They both liked to walk. Among the barbwire and scant shrubs, his head was bent low. Hers cocked high. He thought she was foxy. She liked the indifference of his distance. He liked her good nose. She admired his chest like a horse. Did it matter that she was of Spitz ancestry? His from working class Staffordshire? They were unaware. She needed a serious cure to her separation anxieties. He was adopted into her family.
They met at a shelter. They both liked to walk. Among the barbwire and scant shrubs, his head was bent low. Hers cocked high. He thought she was foxy. She liked the indifference of his distance. He liked her good nose. She admired his chest like a horse. Did it matter that she was of Spitz ancestry? His from working class Staffordshire? They were unaware. She needed a serious cure to her separation anxieties. He was adopted into her family.
After the paperwork, he arrived at his suburban
home. He liked his large, ample bed - the blooming jasmines from the window.
She was confused with her new standing. He gained greater affections from his
new parents. She sulked. He felt he belonged. She started to resent his
presence. It would take time - the pugilist and the paloma. Parallel lines
waiting to intersect.
They shared a castrated past - both runaways. She
was found in the streets of Do You-Know-the-Way-to-San Jose - a studded faux
diamond collar around her neck. He slept in the rainy streets of Jack London’s Oakland
- ribs protruded by the time the cops collected him. Prodded, tested,
socialized – the lonesome journey to domestication. He attempted no barks -
taught himself silence to survive.
On any other day, in the backyard, her legs were
splayed open in full eagle on the lemon lawn chair, while he, tucked away in
the corner, shy as a flea. She crouched in a yoga downward dog position,
coquette-like - an invitation to play. His head was bent low. She rolled unto
her back. He sat upright as a sphinx, but looked away to contemplate a tennis
ball. She flicked her head as if to say, hey come over.
He sauntered by - then pretended to trip.
She jumped on top and pinned him down.
He let her.
They wrestled on the splendor of brick.
She leaned in and licked his chops.
He let her.
From then on, they became inseparable. His Heathcliff to her
Cathy.
Sometimes they slept in the same bed. Sometimes she
would steal his. Again, legs spread open, saluting the heavens, while he coiled
massive muscles fetus style inside her tiny nest. He preferred it this way.
Over the years, change became more manageable.
She conquered her phobia for staircases.
She conquered her phobia for staircases.
He saw the ocean.
She became less anxious.
He found his voice.
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