I had taken shrooms and something or other, and found myself in the little cubby underneath the kitchen counter, next to the dog. It was a square opening, perfect for the size of a relatively large dog mattress that was perfect for a relatively large dog. I had squeezed myself in there next to him, in the dandruffy darkness, and sat listening to our panting.
The dog—Gus, his name was—had recently taken up growling and snapping at strangers. So everybody who saw me crawl into the space held their breaths like I had crawled into my death wish.
“You’re a good boy, you know that?” I buried my fingers in his soft fur, and shivers ran through me from the shock of the smooth texture. He turned his head towards me.
“But that’s stupid to say, you probably hear that all the time.” I was speaking to the dog in Russian, just how I grew up speaking to my animals I suppose.
I looked into his eyes and he raised his brows. (That’s ballsy, looking into a dog’s eyes, ya know? Dogs, they see that as a challenge. If Gus was really going to use me as a chew toy, he would have decided to do it then.)
“I want you to know that you’re growling at all the right people,” I whispered. Continue reading