Just A Dog
I fell in unconditional love with you the instant we met. Your laugh, your warm touch, the way you could do so many impressive things with your opposable thumbs. The first time I jumped out of the car and walked into the house I knew it in my bones: I was home.
For years, we were constant companions. Walks around the neighborhood, hikes into the woods, games of fetch where I obediently brought the ball back to you (though, in fairness, I sometimes had to be coaxed into dropping it).
You looked at me, you talked to me, you pet me on the head and told me you loved me whenever you walked out the door. You let me sleep in your bed – our bed – cuddled next to you as the thunder roared outside. Nothing I did seemed to bother you – the barking, the whining, the cold nose in your face at six in the morning, the way I shed so much fur you could have knit a new line of sweaters. You loved me the way I loved you: loyally.
Then, one day, it changed. I don’t know what it was, exactly. A new partner, a new job, talks of a new baby on the way. One second I was your best friend; the next, I was just a dog.
At first, you seemed to grow impatient with me, huffing and sighing whenever I was in your way. We no longer went on hikes or walks and the leash grew musty in the garage. You no longer allowed me to sleep in your bed either, instructing me to lie on the floor instead. Those few times I messed on the carpet (old legs and a leaky bladder is a dangerous combination) you yelled at me like you never had before. And then you made me stay outside until nightfall.
I constantly wondered what I’d done wrong – Was I a bad boy? Was I not nice enough or gentle enough? Did I not obey? But I never figured out exactly what happened.
When you took me for a ride that summer afternoon, I thought we were headed towards the woods – a long hike to the lake just like we used to. Instead, you pulled up to an old building. Inside, cages lined the halls and dogs, wide-eyed and sad and abandoned by those they trusted most sat inside.
You said something to the lady behind the counter before handing her my leash; you didn’t even look at me as you walked away. But I heard you mutter under your breath. “He’s just a dog,” you said.
My new home is lonely, with plexiglass that keeps me inside. Sometimes, I get to go out for a walk but then I always come back to my room. People shuffle by and look at me. They smile and tell me I’m pretty. And then they whisper to each other that I’m too old.
I still love you unconditionally; I can’t turn that off. But I’m not too loyal to tell you you’re wrong. Just a dog? Silly human – there is no such thing.
JJ Keeler lives in Colorado with a house full of pets. She owns three dogs, two cats, and a hamster she bought as a bribe to get her daughter to ride the school bus. She has a BA in English Literature from the University of Colorado and has worked as a professional writer for fifteen years. Her clothes are perpetually covered in pet hair.
