i used to have a poodle that did that dragging-the-anus-across-the-carpet for relief thingy. charlie, to me. charles maurice of touch?, to the rest of you. son of ch. mister of touch? and mignionette XVI, thank you very much. but he was just my doggie.
turns out it was a glandular thing. medication could help, but it required surgery to correct. that poodle was my best friend during my turbulent adolescence. he knew me like no human ever even tried to. he understood. i could tell you stories of charlie’s brightness. he could take himself for walks, which was good, because the yard could not hold him.
i moved out at nineteen or twenty or something and while i was gone, they decided the dog needed that surgery. at the same time, their seventy-six vw superbeetle needed work. they fixed the car and had the dog put to sleep.
i’d have put the car to sleep. or i’d have paid for the surgery. but they didn’t call me to ask. i was selling electroluxes in san jose at the time, i’d have made people buy expensive vacuums that suck real hard to pay for my dog’s surgery. but no.
parents. can’t live with ’em, wouldn’t have been born without ’em.
actually, i was adopted, so i got born kind of on my own, but still. parents. huh.
*no, you’re not going crazy, i did edit that. you may still be going crazy, but don’t blame me, ok?