A Letter To My Dog Exploring The Human Condition (by Andrea Gibson)

Dear Squash,
aka Squashy, aka Squishy
aka Squash-A-Rooni-Gibson
aka Squish-Squash-and-Ya-Don't-Stop
aka Miracle Button
aka Little Perfect Peanut
aka My Beating Heart with Fur and Legs,

I know you think it's insane that I still poop in the house,
that I choose to wear underwear and pants
giving no one the opportunity to smell my true disposition,
that on the days I need to feel better about myself
I don't just pee on someone's pee.

Don't worry, I am not fooled by my thumbs.
I know I am not the tadpole's final project.
I know I am not the last species evolution hopes to become.
I can't even swallow my own pride
long enough to let myself drool
when something smells delicious.

What must you think of my mirror face?
Or how much of my day I spend practicing my butch voice?
My Baby-I'll-fix-your-carburetor-with-my-toolkit voice.
When you know full well
there is nothing in my toolkit
besides a massive collection of self-help books
that have helped me do nothing
but feng shui the skeletons in my closet.
Don't you just love how that femur accents the sofa set, Squash?

I'm sorry I cry every time I take you to the vet.
I'm sorry they take your temperature like that.
I'm sorry I take you there when you've only got a bug bite.
Humans hold so tight to the leash of life,
but you will roll in anything dead and wear it like perfume.

I wish I had your nose for eternity.
I wish I could see what you see:
why the squirrels satan your eyes,
why the postman deserves to die
even when he's not bringing bills.
What's with hating the shadow
the peace lily makes on the floor
of the living room?
I know I let you down every day
I choose to not murder the vacuum.

Is it bad that I refuse to teach you to not be afraid of men?
Is it bad that I want you to keep your bite and your snarl
and your gleaming teeth?
Is it bad that when they call you a risk,
I call you a feminist?

You never make fun of your friend Chloe’s under-bite,
or your friend Willow’s limp,
or your friend Harvey’s past trouble with the law.

You never criticize me for being too uptight to let my hair down.
Even though you can let yours all the way out:
All over my black hoodie, my black pants, the couch, the car, the chair.

The online merch store that sells my books and t-shirts
wrote me a letter saying, “We can't continue to sell your products
if they continue to be covered in so much of your dog's hair."
I just assumed anything covered in you would increase in value.

Remember when I told that woman I loved her,
then whispered in your ear, “You're my number one girl”?
It's true.
If I could I would put your beating heart in my mouth
and suck on it like a piece of candy
so I could finally understand how you got so sweet.

I know my therapist likes you more than she likes me,
and I still let you sleep on her couch.
You taught me a good nap is the best therapy.
You taught me to sit when I damn well want to sit.

I don't care that you never talk about capitalism or patriarchy
or the heteronormative hegemonic paradigm.
I know you're saving the world
every time you get poo stuck in your butt hair,
and you don't go looking for someone to blame.

Speaking of looking for someone,
I can't imagine what you think of sex.
I can't tell if you think it's a slobbering badly boundaried belly rub
or a poorly aimed fist fight.
You just perch on the end of the bed, tilting your head back and forth,
wondering why I still haven't taken my pants off.

I have issues, Squash.
Humans have issues.
We dig holes to bury our own hearts.
We chew on our own bones.
We escape the predators but still can't shake them off.
So some of us, we wear our own bodies
the way your friend Berlin wore that cone around her head, remember?
So embarrassed, but I never had a better teacher
at uncaging my own spirit than you,
never had a better reason to stop playing dead
than the day I saw your face at the shelter:
Your little nose pressed against the cold glass,
staring up at me like I was a gay Noah's ark.
My heart, my heart, my heart.

Every time I give you a treat,
you run around the house looking for a place to hide it
till you finally come to where I am sitting
and hide it directly under me.
The most important thing I have ever built
in my whole life is your trust.
May you always feel entitled to more than your fair share of the bed.
May you always tear the stuffing out of every toy I give you.
So I can constantly be reminded to keep spilling my guts,
to keep saying I don't know how I will ever make peace
with the shortness of your life span.
But I promise to make sure you know
you are so loved every second you are here.
You know my hands will build the sturdiest ark they possibly can
to hold your holy howl and your holy bark and your holy beg.

Squash-A-Rooni-Gibson,
Little Perfect Peanut,
My Beating Heart with Fur and Legs