And that is why I do not get a dog.
They jump up.
It is not cute.
I do not want to interrupt my walks to feel the warmth of a fresh turd through a plastic bag.
It is for these same reasons I do not have a child, I say.
They want your attention.
It is not cute.
I do not want to roll the baby appearance dice, gripping the edge of the croupier's table,
watching to see if they land on Gerber Baby, Frog Spawn, or Winston Churchill,
knowing that no matter what, those ivory bones will always come up craps.
Also, I do not get a dog, or a baby, or a baby dog
--though maybe a dog-faced baby would earn its keep--
because patting a stranger's pug will keep me for another week,
the warmth of little Queenie or Malcolm or Mr. Wiggles' coat staying
long after I've immediately washed my hands.
I do not get a dog because last week was Seattle and this week is Edmonton
and somewhere in between was eleven hundred miles of prairie,
driving third shift under a sky curved down like a dome
washing my ankles with stars.
I do not get a dog because last week I changed more time zones than underpants.
Because my ex has lived in Vegas for eighteen months
and still we cannot bear to sign the papers.
Because I can walk away from you at the train station
instead of waiting, waiting, tirelessly, faithfully,
for the master's return.
Because I can look back once for effect
and not because my gaze is pulled to the hollow of your throat,
or the look on your face as I walk the wrong direction,
the direction of away from you
instead of sprinting towards the ticket machine to live an AT&T
Visa Check Card
or Oil of Olay-worthy moment.
Because one night is a stand and two is laying down my guard.
I walk the row of woeful, eager, Justin-Bieber-eyed puppies,
The sunrise over Hradcany,
the scars of Hazard mines.
I choose big sky.
I choose yellow fields of canola.
I choose the glass canopies of Clark Quay,
And walk away.
Leaving the dogs to the gas chamber,
the lethal injection,
the fake kindness of the no-kill shelter where gangly adolescent dogs
languish past their cute-by dates.
I leave you to your balcony of herbs,
your collection of 80's vinyl
the bitter sting of edible flowers in your mouth,
the night-swimming in Lindau, the secret door arching the picture of the lake.
whipchick is not so sure about the title.
This piece is an unofficial intersection with the stellar everywordiwrite,whose entry may be found here.