The Pig
I did not like dogs, or any pets, until around 2 years ago. I would pretend in public, because there is a perception that people who do not like dogs are evil. I think women use a man's rapport with dogs as a measuring device. So I faked it. I would pet them and ask their names, not caring. And then I would run to the closest basin to wash the filth from my hands. To me, they were dirty complications. Company for the lonely.
I moved in with a friend who owned a dog. Her name was Chile, which I thought was awful. She looked like a boy dog. But all dogs look male to me, except for poodles and the toys. This one was medium-sized with orange-brown hair - part chow or something. She had a proclivity for defecating in my bedroom. This soured the development of our relationship. But this passed and I forgave her. And then she won me over. She was a smart dog. I could walk her in East Walnut Hills with no leash. A feat that only now I understand. I was proud to be her part-time manager.
My next position would be co-owner. I did not apply. The title was bestowed on me when I moved in with my girlfriend. The union was a package deal that included two little dogs: a white male bijon, which is a type of poodle, and a female pug.
Despite the positive experience I had with Chile, I was still the reluctant care taker. I mused about the simplicity of our household if the dogs did not exist. I dreamed of clean floors, couches and pillows that I could lay my head on with confidence. But I began to change. It was the pug. She was a little snorting pig of an animal that farted like your dirty uncle and snored like a trombone. She did not trust me at first, which I respect. We soon fell for each other and we made music and scents out of our orifices together.
She was a proper pig, who sat like a queen. She seemed almost British, and reminded me of Angela Lansbury. Her gait was a gangsta limp and she always stood as if she was leaning in a doorway. While reluctant to begin her morning jog, she would trudge along. She tried so hard and her head tilted to the sky when she ran. And she would eat everything. Even vegetables. I loved her.
She died last week. When I saw her lying still on her side I went into a panic. She was gone but I was diluted and thought I could save her. She was still warm. I made wild calls to the authorities that offered no hope. My girlfriend allowed me to spin my wheels and get through the denial. She knew it was over and that I had to figure it out for myself.
It was the saddest night of my life. I do not know if this should embarrass me. I was very close to my dad's mother and she lived with us the last few months of her life. Her body was broken and weak and she spoke in whispers. We all knew it was coming. She was ready. She was no longer herself. The end gave her peace. My other grandparents on my mom's side were peripheral. The old couple we visited twice a year. They were gone when I was young and the relationship underdeveloped. My immediate family is living strong and I have never had a close friend go down.
So the pug was a blow to my foundation. It was unexpected, which made it fierce. The transition between a living animal to a shell was violent, like a door slamming shut. I had to drive to Home Depot to buy a shovel in order to bury my little piggy. The task was cruel and my body shed liquid from my pores and tear ducts. I was a blubbering mess. My other dog pawed at the pug, trying to wake her up. It was the sweetest gesture in the world. I cradled her into the awkward hole and held her paw. She would never let me do that before.
I understand the movie 'Pet Cemetery'. This is the one where the father of a family discovers a cursed Indian burial ground and the secret that if a dead body (of any species) is buried on the grounds, it will come back to life. The catch is that the resurrected will be evil and void of a soul. The father knows this but still buries his dead cat. It comes back evil. He knows it. After his son tragically dies, he buries him. The son comes back evil. The child, or former child, kills his wife. So the father buries the wife. This movie had frustrated me because I never believed that a man could be such a fool. I did not understand loss.
I would have taken my piggy to that cemetery during those first delirious hours. I would have thought she would come back the right way, just like the father in 'Pet Cemetery'. I understand.
My head has returned and with it clarity. I am a juvenile, in terms of coping with crisis. I am now a little better. I am a self-centric, who struggled with the concept of caring for others. I am now a little better. I am a softy, who falls in love hard. That is still the same. It took the love of a pig to figure it all out.
The pig is dead. Long live the pig.
I moved in with a friend who owned a dog. Her name was Chile, which I thought was awful. She looked like a boy dog. But all dogs look male to me, except for poodles and the toys. This one was medium-sized with orange-brown hair - part chow or something. She had a proclivity for defecating in my bedroom. This soured the development of our relationship. But this passed and I forgave her. And then she won me over. She was a smart dog. I could walk her in East Walnut Hills with no leash. A feat that only now I understand. I was proud to be her part-time manager.
My next position would be co-owner. I did not apply. The title was bestowed on me when I moved in with my girlfriend. The union was a package deal that included two little dogs: a white male bijon, which is a type of poodle, and a female pug.
Despite the positive experience I had with Chile, I was still the reluctant care taker. I mused about the simplicity of our household if the dogs did not exist. I dreamed of clean floors, couches and pillows that I could lay my head on with confidence. But I began to change. It was the pug. She was a little snorting pig of an animal that farted like your dirty uncle and snored like a trombone. She did not trust me at first, which I respect. We soon fell for each other and we made music and scents out of our orifices together.
She was a proper pig, who sat like a queen. She seemed almost British, and reminded me of Angela Lansbury. Her gait was a gangsta limp and she always stood as if she was leaning in a doorway. While reluctant to begin her morning jog, she would trudge along. She tried so hard and her head tilted to the sky when she ran. And she would eat everything. Even vegetables. I loved her.
She died last week. When I saw her lying still on her side I went into a panic. She was gone but I was diluted and thought I could save her. She was still warm. I made wild calls to the authorities that offered no hope. My girlfriend allowed me to spin my wheels and get through the denial. She knew it was over and that I had to figure it out for myself.
It was the saddest night of my life. I do not know if this should embarrass me. I was very close to my dad's mother and she lived with us the last few months of her life. Her body was broken and weak and she spoke in whispers. We all knew it was coming. She was ready. She was no longer herself. The end gave her peace. My other grandparents on my mom's side were peripheral. The old couple we visited twice a year. They were gone when I was young and the relationship underdeveloped. My immediate family is living strong and I have never had a close friend go down.
So the pug was a blow to my foundation. It was unexpected, which made it fierce. The transition between a living animal to a shell was violent, like a door slamming shut. I had to drive to Home Depot to buy a shovel in order to bury my little piggy. The task was cruel and my body shed liquid from my pores and tear ducts. I was a blubbering mess. My other dog pawed at the pug, trying to wake her up. It was the sweetest gesture in the world. I cradled her into the awkward hole and held her paw. She would never let me do that before.
I understand the movie 'Pet Cemetery'. This is the one where the father of a family discovers a cursed Indian burial ground and the secret that if a dead body (of any species) is buried on the grounds, it will come back to life. The catch is that the resurrected will be evil and void of a soul. The father knows this but still buries his dead cat. It comes back evil. He knows it. After his son tragically dies, he buries him. The son comes back evil. The child, or former child, kills his wife. So the father buries the wife. This movie had frustrated me because I never believed that a man could be such a fool. I did not understand loss.
I would have taken my piggy to that cemetery during those first delirious hours. I would have thought she would come back the right way, just like the father in 'Pet Cemetery'. I understand.
My head has returned and with it clarity. I am a juvenile, in terms of coping with crisis. I am now a little better. I am a self-centric, who struggled with the concept of caring for others. I am now a little better. I am a softy, who falls in love hard. That is still the same. It took the love of a pig to figure it all out.
The pig is dead. Long live the pig.
Sobe Brenneman, Septemper 2003 - 9 June 2007
posted by Mark Damon Bower @ 9:47 AM
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