The dog I inherited is a complete asshole to everyone but the German, the Director, and me — to whom he’s most devoted. He was my mom’s dog for a brief respite between shelters. She worried about what would happen to him when if she died. I’ll take him, the German told her. She breathed a sigh of relief with what little breath she had left.
I first became aware of modern dance companies by the publicity shots I’d see in newspapers. Women with their hands apart pointing to Casper the Ghost or other imaginary diety. Men, wearing only white gauze, cantering over another dancer in crouch pose eating a daisy. They had me. And then when I started actually attending dance performances, it sealed the deal.
Ah, I didn’t pay attention to the bird chirping differently when I tossed the ladder under the staircase.
Then a series of smaller cries erupted right in the ladder / decrepit fence material area. Shit, I thought. Shit shit, I thought again again.
The Robin on the pine branch kept at it. I tiptoed closer to the pile, lifting junk with my pinkies raised, and saw a moving chicken part with some yellow fuzz on it. Then more: a disoriented baby flapping its new parts and hobbling.
I looked up at the discreet nest in our 2nd story staircase to confirm: bobbing fur in the nest, baby bird down. Baby was nestled in between the steps of the shorter ladder that I didn’t use. Nice. Too many siblings flipping the bird out of the nest and onto a metal ladder, only to get nearly pummeled by another ladder.
I got some stale bread and balled it up into bits before tossing it to the mother. Who didn’t take the bait. She just stared me down. I went back inside to consult with an expert.
With the Hosers International tv show blaring, Lola felt able to turn inward. She was devising a way to get the falafel to be both crispy but not grimy. Baked things meant to be fried didn’t always translate. Lola guessed that with a few tablespoons of coconut oil remaining she would have to suck it up and use canola – which as many helpful doctors on the internet advised was poison.
You were so ugly when we first met. Your nose all pushed in; your dirty dishwater blonde hair tufted out like a duck. Bisquit was convinced I was wrong and that you’d turn out beautiful. “Look at those eyes,” she said, meaning your eyes. I could not deny this. You reminded me of a beloved grandmother. Your eyes and her eyes were the same. Well, your one blue eye was the same as her two blue eyes. Your other eye, half blue, half brown was way too David Bowie, even the docile David Bowie singing Little Drummer Boy with what’s his name.
Bisquit called you away from your demanding sister at that first meeting. All of the others were saying in their own ways, “Pick me”. Loud ways, ways involving lots of movement. You were the only one standing there, solitary even while surrounded by those who could not remain still. You trained those eyes on us, following us as we passed you to check out your other sister, the white one, who was already so pretty, but so distrustful that she had to be kept apart from everyone else.
You are attending to your wrist right now, which has grown a small inflated innertube on it.