Gotta pee! and though it was true enough, my physical urge brought on by fear, what caught my attention was the sound of the rhyme. For a brief second I almost forgot my precarious position as I felt a desire to play more with the words, to rearrange them in a more pleasing way. But the danger that confronted me won out, and I postponed any poetic yearnings in order to concentrate on remaining hidden. I thought nervously about my tail.
I was not certain whether my tail was exposed. Surprisingly, a dog does not have much awareness of his own tail. Pride in it, certainly; my own, though still young and incomplete, was beginning to show signs of developing into a particularly magnificent tail, fringed and straight. But awareness of its minute-to-minute placement was difficult to achieve without actually turning around to look and assess.
"Here they are!" It was the voice of Pete.
"Looky there. I thought she was eating a lot." The thin black man was speaking. His voice was not at all cruel, just concerned.
I did not dare to peek. They were quite near. I hoped my tail, if it was exposed, would not move and betray me. Considering its importance as an appendage, the sad lack of control over one's tail is astounding.
I could hear the men talking. "Counting the one Pete's got, three of them little buggers. They're cute, aren't they?"
"Maybe I'll take two home instead of just the one. Whaddaya think? Will my girlfriend kill me if I take two?"
"Nah. Women like puppies. She'll start talking babytalk to them the minute you walk through the door."
"Find me another female, would you?"
I waited, shivering and listening, as they picked up Tussle and Wispy. I pictured the embarrassing scrutiny taking place.
Then I cringed, crouching there under the cardboard; and probably my tail, unwilled by my brain, wiggled in humiliation for my brothers (and I was glad that they had not learned the nuances of human speech, and so would not know) as once again the dishwashers, almost in unison, pronounced each puppy to be female.
I heard the men gather them up. I heard the frightened whimpers. I did nothing. What could I do? I stayed hidden.
I have carried that guilt with me all my life.
"This one don't look too good," someone said. I knew he must be referring to Wispy. Her fur was so discolored and sparse. I would like to think there was compassion in his voice.
"Ah, bring it along. If nobody wants it, we'll drop it off at the animal shelter."
My heart leaped. I knew the word shelter and that it meant, for humans at least, food and clothing and a bed. Sometimes, on rainy nights, several human occupants of the alley where I had lived since my birth decided to go to "the shelter." It was crowded, I had heard them say, noisier than they liked, and lacking in privacy, but in times of stress and need, it was a place of comfort and respite.
I had not known that there was an animal shelter, too.
"Yeah," I heard Pete say as they headed toward the restaurant door, their aprons weighted with puppies. "They'll put it to sleep at the shelter."
I was relieved. Maybe, I thought, I should have revealed myself and gone along. To be put to sleep—after some food and perhaps warm milk and some playtime—sounded like an appealing thing, and would no doubt involve some nice ragged blankets, free of fleas.
I wriggled free of my cardboard and scampered toward the restaurant door.
"Wait!" I yipped. "I was here all along! I'm part of the group! Can I go? Can I be put to sleep?"
But the door had closed.
Night was coming, I noticed.
Sadly I plodded back to the corner behind the trash cans. I curled up, my tail all the way around to my chin, and tried to get comfy. I began to play with rhyming words again.
All alone! What to do?
Brothers gone! Sister, also!
Very quickly, thinking it over, I realized my mistake and corrected it to Sister, too! How pleasant it sounded, with the words in order, and in rhyme. What a comfort poetry could be in one's life. At
I was not certain whether my tail was exposed. Surprisingly, a dog does not have much awareness of his own tail. Pride in it, certainly; my own, though still young and incomplete, was beginning to show signs of developing into a particularly magnificent tail, fringed and straight. But awareness of its minute-to-minute placement was difficult to achieve without actually turning around to look and assess.
"Here they are!" It was the voice of Pete.
"Looky there. I thought she was eating a lot." The thin black man was speaking. His voice was not at all cruel, just concerned.
I did not dare to peek. They were quite near. I hoped my tail, if it was exposed, would not move and betray me. Considering its importance as an appendage, the sad lack of control over one's tail is astounding.
I could hear the men talking. "Counting the one Pete's got, three of them little buggers. They're cute, aren't they?"
"Maybe I'll take two home instead of just the one. Whaddaya think? Will my girlfriend kill me if I take two?"
"Nah. Women like puppies. She'll start talking babytalk to them the minute you walk through the door."
"Find me another female, would you?"
I waited, shivering and listening, as they picked up Tussle and Wispy. I pictured the embarrassing scrutiny taking place.
Then I cringed, crouching there under the cardboard; and probably my tail, unwilled by my brain, wiggled in humiliation for my brothers (and I was glad that they had not learned the nuances of human speech, and so would not know) as once again the dishwashers, almost in unison, pronounced each puppy to be female.
I heard the men gather them up. I heard the frightened whimpers. I did nothing. What could I do? I stayed hidden.
I have carried that guilt with me all my life.
"This one don't look too good," someone said. I knew he must be referring to Wispy. Her fur was so discolored and sparse. I would like to think there was compassion in his voice.
"Ah, bring it along. If nobody wants it, we'll drop it off at the animal shelter."
My heart leaped. I knew the word shelter and that it meant, for humans at least, food and clothing and a bed. Sometimes, on rainy nights, several human occupants of the alley where I had lived since my birth decided to go to "the shelter." It was crowded, I had heard them say, noisier than they liked, and lacking in privacy, but in times of stress and need, it was a place of comfort and respite.
I had not known that there was an animal shelter, too.
"Yeah," I heard Pete say as they headed toward the restaurant door, their aprons weighted with puppies. "They'll put it to sleep at the shelter."
I was relieved. Maybe, I thought, I should have revealed myself and gone along. To be put to sleep—after some food and perhaps warm milk and some playtime—sounded like an appealing thing, and would no doubt involve some nice ragged blankets, free of fleas.
I wriggled free of my cardboard and scampered toward the restaurant door.
"Wait!" I yipped. "I was here all along! I'm part of the group! Can I go? Can I be put to sleep?"
But the door had closed.
Night was coming, I noticed.
Sadly I plodded back to the corner behind the trash cans. I curled up, my tail all the way around to my chin, and tried to get comfy. I began to play with rhyming words again.
All alone! What to do?
Brothers gone! Sister, also!
Very quickly, thinking it over, I realized my mistake and corrected it to Sister, too! How pleasant it sounded, with the words in order, and in rhyme. What a comfort poetry could be in one's life. At
Similar Books
Bible Camp
Ty Johnston
Deadly Stuff
Joyce Cato
Cubanita
Gaby Triana
Murder at Hatfield House
Amanda Carmack
The Club
Tara Brown writing as Sophie Starr
Frozen in Time
Owen Beattie
The Mammoth Book of Tasteless Jokes
E. Henry Thripshaw
The Armchair Bride
Mo Fanning
Captive
A.D. Robertson