Written by Ken Carman
When you first adopted me I was young and a bit confused. Something wasn’t right. I was unsure, yet I felt the whole universe was mine. And my world was filled with flying Frisbees. So I dove into my world like a swimmer in Hawaii off of one of the cliffs: deep, high and over, and over again. For a while… that’s all I knew.
I aged; as all creatures do. I slowed down a bit. But I never took my eyes off the flying discs. I ate your dog food, though I preferred yours, I stayed in your big pen, though I wanted to wander free and I grumbled when you payed attention to the little dog more than me. I ignored the cats, except when they rubbed up against me or decided I was a landing platform. Then I growled and walked away… annoyed.
Nights I pretend to sleep on your couch… or in your bed when you don’t move around too much. Sometimes I do sleep. One night, on the couch, I had a dream. We were in a house near New York City and we were arguing about your mother. I no longer had four legs: I had two and I was older than you. I was your father. Your mother laid dying on the recliner and you asked if we had to wait for her to die to go to camp again. I resisted the impulse to slug or slap you. She cried out that she wasn’t going to die to you, knowing full well no one believed the lie.
Could it be?
Could it be?
Was I human once?
I have no way of asking. I probably couldn’t even if I did for such concepts are impossible, at best, for four legged creatures. I have become the dog. We become the collie, or the human, because that’s the nature of life; and death.
So I will live my days being your pet and catching Frisbees. I will love you… again. And when we come back next time, will you be my gerbil? Will I be your teacher, your mother, your brother? And maybe next time I won’t have this stupid name. I don’t care if I once was your father.
“Darth” is no name for a collie.
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Darth image courtesy wheelon.com