petlovr-story

[petlovr-story]

petlovr

Connecting my place to Lucas Bogatski’s, inscribed in the intervening cornfield, there’s a skinny byway, iced-up, stalk-flanked for the most part but broken at one point by a snippet of train track, a chapel, small and white like a cartoon chapel, and a Marathon gas station, thank freaking God, because Matty needs out. Again. He whines and paws the window, still more evidence of the problem at hand: that he can’t seem to keep himself inside himself and we’ve pretty much given up hope he might someday learn how. We’ve more-or-less had it with Matty. I remember, a few days ago, scrolling past an article about this couple who gave their one-year-old son back to the adoption agency. Back to the adoption agency. Returned him! And that sort of sealed the deal for me, right, seeing that. It made me feel better about the whole thing, being the bearer-back of this bad dog, like maybe I’m not the worst person on earth: a little embarrassed, sure, but not so evil. I pull into the Marathon lot, leash Matty up and let him snuffle around a bit. He noses at frozen bootprints until eventually some instinct of his confirms one place as being the right place and he pees a long, hot hole into the high grimy snowbank along the station’s street-edge. A passing minivan sprays up slurry. I wriggle feeling back into my toes thinking all for the best. Hey. It’s alllll for the best. Excuse me, ma'am? Sir? You got a receipt for this baby? Bladder voided and belted once more into the passenger seat, secured in my periphery, Matty watches me, panting, this dumb blonde thing. His tongue drips a slow and pungent S.O.S. out onto the vinyl seat cushion. I start the car. I shake my head. I kill the car. 

“You like Lucas,” I tell him, once the engine’s quieted down. “Remember? He’s your buddy. He’s your friend. He’s your buddy and he’s your friend and you like him. So enough.” 

But Matty’s forgotten all about me, is busy considering the big puddle of drool he’s just produced. 

Great. Gross. Whatever. I start up again. 

[petlovr-story]

petlovr

Connecting my place to Lucas Bogatski's, inscribed in the intervening cornfield, there’s a skinny byway, iced-up, stalk-flanked for the most part but broken at one point by a snippet of train track, a chapel, small and white like a cartoon chapel, and a Marathon gas station, thank freaking God, because Matty needs out. Again. He whines and paws the window, still more evidence of the problem at hand: that he can’t seem to keep himself inside himself and we've pretty much given up hope he might someday learn how. We've more-or-less had it with Matty. I remember, a few days ago, scrolling past an article about this couple who gave their one-year-old son back to the adoption agency. Back to the adoption agency. Returned him! And that sort of sealed the deal for me, right, seeing that. It made me feel better about the whole thing, being the bearer-back of this bad dog, like maybe I’m not the worst person on earth: a little embarrassed, sure, but not so evil. I pull into the Marathon lot, leash Matty up and let him snuffle around a bit. He noses at frozen bootprints until eventually some instinct of his confirms one place as being the right place and he pees a long, hot hole into the high grimy snowbank along the station's street-edge. A passing minivan sprays up slurry. I wriggle feeling back into my toes thinking all for the best. Hey. It’s alllll for the best. Excuse me, ma'am? Sir? You got a receipt for this baby? Bladder voided and belted once more into the passenger seat, secured in my periphery, Matty watches me, panting, this dumb blonde thing. His tongue drips a slow and pungent S.O.S. out onto the vinyl seat cushion. I start the car. I shake my head. I kill the car. 

“You like Lucas,” I tell him, once the engine’s quieted down. “Remember? He’s your buddy. He’s your friend. He’s your buddy and he’s your friend and you like him. So enough.” 

But Matty’s forgotten all about me, is busy considering the big puddle of drool he’s just produced. 

Great. Gross. Whatever. I start up again.