dog cure

One of those days where every single thing in the whole wide world is stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid. You are stupid and you, and you and you and especially you and I hate you all, but that’s okay, because I hate myself even more, okay? Okay then!

I laid in bed for an hour after the alarm went off and the dogs were supposed to stay with me and snore and make me feel better—that is their job. But they went off to pad around the house and wrestle and growl and Ogre was probably peeing all over everything and the room was too bright to go back to sleep and I hate everything especially sunshine and dogs and these pillows and life.

E came in and threw my pants at my head. “Come on,” he said.

“No,” I said, and rolled over and put my face in one of the stupid pillows.

“Get up,” he said, and pulled the comforter off of me. The dogs jumped up on the bed and started wrestling on my head.

“I hate you!” I said. I was filled with a great sense of injustice and rage.

“I don’t care,” he said. “Get up. Get dressed.”

“No!” I said, and then “Okay, okay!” when he reached for my feet because he is cruel and doesn’t understand that tickling is not a proportionate response.

I got dressed sullenly and stomped down the stairs. Ogre was wearing his winter coat with the fur hood and bouncing around. Crom was staring patiently, fixedly at the door. E handed me the keys. The dogs quivered at the front door when we opened it, and then exploded off the stoop like we had shot them from a t-shirt cannon when we said “Okay.”

We drove to the park. We threw the ball for Crom across the field of snow, and he took off in a gallop, his feet not touching the ground at all. Ogre leapt across the drifts like a fat gazelle and rubbed his face in the snow and spun in circles and looked delighted to be alive. Crom shot back and forth across the field in single-minded pursuit, his heart full of the joy of the fetch and return. Everything was bright and clear and the mountain was close enough to put in your pocket and E turned to me and I was going to punch him if he said, “I told you so,” because I could feel myself grinning when Crom leapt high and neatly plucked the ball from the air.

But he said, “I’m glad you’re feeling better,” and I said, “Me too.”

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