1. If a dog is only as good as its owner, I must be an inconsiderate doofus oblivious to the worry my wandering off causes.
2. I wonder if the Tea Party people are jealous they couldn’t get that many motivated people out for their crap?
3. Eh, fuck it. Here’s what I want to say. The dog ran off last night. Not “I’m chasing something. Fuck you, I’m not listening!!!!” but just “I know where I am so it’s not that important that you know where I am so I’m not listening.” I called and called for her and I couldn’t find her and she didn’t come and I went inside and I put my shoes on and I stumbled around in the dark and finally, the back light came on, which is motion triggered, and there she was by the back door.
I felt this feeling, like fear and relief and rage combined. I was relieved she hadn’t gone too far for too long, but lord, I was pissed she didn’t come when she was called. It’s been a decade. She knows the drill. I slammed that back door so hard I’m lucky I still have glass in it. And I wanted to beat her down.
I mean, lord, I just wanted to drop her.
And that feeling scares me, you know? My whole life, it’s scared me. I’ve never beat my dog. Hell, her favorite game is “smack my bottom” so I can’t honestly say I’ve never hit her, but I’ve certainly never hit her to hurt her. But last night, I wanted to.
It’s weird. You know, they say as you get older, oh, you’ll regret not having kids. But, honestly, I don’t. Not because I’m not curious about what it would be like to have children, or that I don’t like children, or that I’ve got some great radical feminist anti-child agenda. It’s really because here I am, with eight hours of sleep, a non-stressful job, food on the table, money in the bank, bills paid, car working, all my family in good health, and one little hiccup like “Can’t find the dog for ten minutes” flips something inside me that scares the shit out of me. How do you put a kid in the path of that?
And it’s not just hypothetical, you know? I used to wonder “How could this relative do that to that relative?” But honestly, I get it. They feel what I felt last night and whatever thing there is in me that keeps me from acting on it? Theirs either broke or they never had it. Maybe there is a long path from “I feel it and it frightens me and I don’t act on it” to “I feel it and I let it wash over me and I rage at the people and things I love like some angry demi-god” but I’ve never really felt sure enough about that to bet someone else’s well-being on it, you know?