favorite things

my dog, half-border collie, half-lab, is this scared, subservient whore. i love this dog, but can't so much as look at her without causing her to shakily release the contents of her bladder, while she grovels towards me, the two front paws meekly dragging the rest of her body, which starts to list like a sinking ship before finally reaching my feet, which she licks, and then collapses completely onto her back, legs spread, trail of urine behind on the tile floor.

my natural father was an unpleasant drunk.

so the two of us have a wall between us, a force field, an act that we've gotten good at, and only an observant eye could see. she and I are like two ghosts in the same haunted house, never acknowledging each other's presence, me for fear she'll piddle on the floor, she for fear that i'll yell at her for being so afraid.

as i child, my favorite game was to pull the table cloth as close as i could to the floor, the table becoming my fortress. i could hide under there for hours with my imagination, nearly even blocking out the heavy footsteps as he walked every half hour from the TV to the kitchen for another drink.

outdoors, we can finally air our mutual affection, she, finally able to release herself at will on the nasturtiums; i, unconcerned with another mess to clean. it amazes my son that on these occasions, i actually take that great big dog into my arms and spin her around. it amazes him that this timid, mess of an indoor creature can attain such speeds outside in her excitement and joy.

he left for good in 77, me still too young to understand much. but i did see him from a distance years later, sober, playing with his three daughters. they were having a round of croquet, of all things, he bending over the littlest one, guiding her mallet; the other two skipping around, trying to distract them with wagging tongues and shaking heads.