Living with Dogs
The Weekly | N°06
You choose your spots to sanctify. This patch of grass. That inclination of earth. Holy be this bit of dirt. That lamppost, and that trash bag when I took my eye off you for two seconds.
You track down scents and get distracted by every single thing with wings, from steel-cased man-forged birds to butterflies and mosquitos. The world could slide into Hades and you'd still be caught in the watching of beating wings.
When I hold you, I hold remnants of our neighbourhood. Of the piss-sodden bushes you drag yourself along. Of the stamped down sludge and dirt and fecal traces between your footpads and clinging to your nails.
Each time you squat down or cant your hips towards a wall, yellow-tinted rivulets dip into the crevices of footpath tiles.
You scratch your anal glands across the universe, and very sometimes when they're full up, and we haven't been to the vet in a while, they'll explode at random, and you and the room will smell like a fish apocalypse.
You lick yourself too loud and do so next to me, and on me, and I want to kill you each time you do so. I push you away, and you look at me confused, sad, but still smacking your lips.
You hump a white teddy bear when you're bored, horny, or after dinner. When it gets too crusty, I wash it on hot, and it is once more pristine—a white-furred virgin until you ravage it once more.
When I wash you, the first spray of warm water releases each scent caught in your fur. And I think of every pretty, little quote photo on social of the definition of petrichor: 'the scent when it rains after a long dry spell'. petri.chor. Stone-trapped scents.
You push your body into mine. I am warmed. You take up too much space. I hate you. I love you. Always. Always.
—written by Julie Smits
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