Torn to Shreds

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Oh, no.
Dog rips up my poem,
all vigorous head-shaking, quiet growling, total focus.

Cat observes from the sofa, interested but not surprised.

I, however, am surprised, frozen in place.
Dog does things like this.
Why am I surprised?

Why did I leave my poem by the fireplace, next to my cup of tea?
It was coming along nicely, the poem. It was.

Dog looks up and sees me.
Tail wags happily as he trots over to show me the results of his fine endeavors.
He drops pieces of shredded poem at my feet.
He waits for praise and a pat.
And perhaps a treat?

I sadly gather up the scraps, sit next to Cat, and start piecing
the poem together, like a jigsaw puzzle.
Some words are slobbered beyond
recognition, but most are there,
ready to be assembled.

Hmmm. Perhaps Dog is an editor.

Cat looks at me skeptically.
Dog scratches his ear.
Words and phrases glow like jewels.
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Hope and Greed

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Words
thoughts
leftovers
Life is a pile of scraps laid end to end

Mine
my taste
my take
my discovery

I am a dog with my scraps
Full of hope and greed

After the Escape

Where did she go?
She was right there, over there, she was.
Wasn't she?
He sniffs the air, then dashes through the flower bed and past the parking lot, then back.
Where is she?
Oh! There!
He scrambles through the leaves in a joyous hurry.
Not her?
He freezes in surprise.
She left him?
Where, where, where?
His ears close and his anxiety expands like a big bubble filling him.
Oh, no!
Too many scents bombard him, the wrong scents, not her.
Bad dog!
But  to run is such happiness.
And now he is scared and not anywhere and why did he run?
Always running, whenever he can.
Running!
Then coming, to her with her frown, her beautiful frown.
Where did she go?
He floats inside his panic, whimpering.

Horseback

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To me, riding a horse is scary. Huge creature, very high. Long fall.

Horses don't stand still (like a car), don't wait for a treat (like a dog), don't snuggle in your lap (like a cat). A horse is worrisome. Being an unskilled rider, I add to this worry with my false starts, wishy-washy steering, and general anxiety, which the horse can feel right through the reins. It doesn't take a horse long to realize he is in charge, not me, and that he can have some fun. Or not. Some horses for hire are so bored that they just shuffle through their established paths without the slightest urge to prance or be willful. They don't even notice their chance to dominate this hapless rider. I'm good on these horses. I love these horses. Most horses are not like this.

"Let's go riding!" someone inevitably says with a big grin of enthusiasm.

Oh, no, is always my first thought. I immediately start thinking up excuses, good reasons why I can't go. But no matter how good my excuses are, I am talked into it anyway. I'm not sure how this happens.

I don't like to admit how many times I've been horseback riding because it's embarrassing. You'd think I would get better. But I don't, so I always say I'm a complete novice, which I've learned works much better than admitting I have some riding experience. Novices are treated more kindly, not scorned or prodded, and they are given those Old Nelly horses I love. But sometimes the 7-year olds take all the Old Nellys and I am expected to get up on one of the scary horses because I am, after all, an adult.

I tell myself to adjust my attitude, to set a better example. Look, everyone else likes horseback riding I say to myself persuasively. It's easy. My fourth grade daughter loves horses. She doesn't mind if the horse gets frisky or bounces her around. She wants her horse to run. Omigod, run?! Trot?! Noooooo. I get nervous if the horse even looks at me.

My friend has a horse, a beautiful horse with a white blaze on her forehead. Feeding the horse is doable, though horse teeth are extremely big in comparison to a carrot or an apple, or my hand. Maybe my friend hasn't noticed that I always bring my daughter along so she gets the riding lesson, not me. I watch as my friend coaches my child to steer this enormous animal, kick it in the sides, tug the reins harder. Be confident. Be boss. And my daughter does it.

"Go, Tina, go!" she yells at the horse, her little feet flailing away. And Tina obeys, turns right, starts trotting. I am amazed. I can see it in the kid's body language: "I am boss!" That's all there is to it?

Next time, next time.
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Thunder

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Cats hate thunder.

There goes Snowball, skittering away in panic as if a predator is after her. Huge eyes glitter green from beneath the couch.

Tiger is up on a chair, frozen in place. He looks like a big tabby dandelion with this fur sticking straight out.

Duke is more alarmed by the cats than by the thunder. They are behaving very strangely. There must be something wrong! He starts running up and down the hall barking.

The thunder stops.

Duke checks his food bowl.

Tiger's fur settles down and he begins licking his paw.

Snowball comes out from under the couch batting around her new dustball.

They come, they go, all the big and little alarms of life.

Like thunder.
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Truce

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I am pinned under the quilt, can't turn over. There is a dog snuggled up to my right side, breathing gently. One cat is curled against my feet, the other is stretched out along my left side. I am warm, rather I am hot, and I can't move. This apparently was not an issue when I was asleep, but I am now awake and starting to sweat. I wonder how my beloved animals come to swarm me in the night. They don't usually do this.

The cats do not like the dog; the dog is wary of both cats.

The cats do not like each other.

The dog is wary of both cats.

At bedtime, Tiger the tabby was roaming the neighborhood, nowhere to be seen, Snowball was camped at the foot of my bed guarding her territory, and Duke was on his doggie rug, resigned to the floor.

Come morning, predator and prey lie together with their human, asleep in truce.

I hate to disturb this small miracle, so I don't.
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Greed in His Head

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My dog does not have a preacher in his head.

• No inner voice to educate him about the seven deadly sins, including greed.
• No one to explain the virtues of sharing his good fortune, and food, with others.
• No one to sing his praises for not taking more than he needs.

My dog does not have a mom in his head.

• No inner voice to exhalt the wisdom of vegetables, and eating slowly.
• No one to instruct him on manners.
• No one to ask him whether he is sure it's a good idea to eat what he's about to eat.

My dog does not have a boss in his head.

• No inner voice to explain the consequences of stealing food off the table.
• No one to enforce the skills of sit, come, stay, drop it.
• No one to assure him of rewards at some future time.

My dog has greed in his head, pure and simple.
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