Long-deceased pets of yore seemed a safe topic
for the awkward post-dessert conversation.
A woman more than twice my age
reminisced across the table about her childhood mutt
as I wished my glass of milk wasn't empty.
"Princey lived to a ripe old age. He snuck out
one night when a female dog
in the neighborhood was in heat."
I laughed on the inside at the euphemism
and scratched my plate with my
chocolate-smeared fork.
"We found him dead the next morning.
Well, he wasn't totally dead yet.
We brought him to the vet
but it was too late. Apparently
he'd had a heart attack."
She'd politely failed to mention the God-decreed
act that brought on the coronary, of course.
"Poor guy," I said
half under my breath
while trying to hide the smirk.
I didn't pity his luck.
That's how this old dog
wants to go out someday, too.
Currently reading:
"An Apology for Crudity and Other Stories" by Sherwood Anderson.
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