06/03/09
I dreamt about Java last night. First dream I can remember having of her since summer, when I moved to a big city in another part of the world and stopped for a day in my hometown between equidistant far-flung theres and heres to dig a hole, wrap her lukewarm body in her favourite blanket, and place her gently in the ground--just so--beneath the ancient eidetic vines of my grandmother's clothesline pole. Grammy would have said, "Bury her in the woods." Grampy would have had her taxidermied and put, reverently, not on some mantelpiece, but in the front porch next to the owl he found shot and dying. I put them all in the ground. The owl went missing.
Twelve years that dog was my only constant. Then I kissed my mom goodbye and hello and never let her see me cry because if you're gonna go and shake up the world you better goddamn at least pretend to be courageous. Grammy would have agreed with that. I'm still holding that spade, still holding her urn, not quite connected to the keep of the ground, but inlaid tuberously with the soil.
We were driving somewhere, with my aunt Debbie (the wholesome matriarch of the remaining flagella of my family) and some dream-fiction boyfriend of hers in charge. Java was in a cage in the back of the alternating SUV/tank, and we'd been travelling for days. They wouldn't let her out, and on cue with my protests she shat a bunch of blood and intestines and bile and shit all over the backseat.
We pulled over at a couche tard, and the dream fiction guy started tossing all my stuff out onto the curb while I was trying to release my dog. She died, and I woke up trying to punch that guy in the face.
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Twelve years that dog was my only constant. Then I kissed my mom goodbye and hello and never let her see me cry because if you're gonna go and shake up the world you better goddamn at least pretend to be courageous. Grammy would have agreed with that. I'm still holding that spade, still holding her urn, not quite connected to the keep of the ground, but inlaid tuberously with the soil.
We were driving somewhere, with my aunt Debbie (the wholesome matriarch of the remaining flagella of my family) and some dream-fiction boyfriend of hers in charge. Java was in a cage in the back of the alternating SUV/tank, and we'd been travelling for days. They wouldn't let her out, and on cue with my protests she shat a bunch of blood and intestines and bile and shit all over the backseat.
We pulled over at a couche tard, and the dream fiction guy started tossing all my stuff out onto the curb while I was trying to release my dog. She died, and I woke up trying to punch that guy in the face.
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