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Saturday, October 1, 2016

The Dead II

Waf is fast asleep.

His head slips ever-so-slightly from his house-within-an-apartment, a tiny cloth and foam home sitting on the floor just before me as I sit on our kitchen floor. He's dreaming.

Not in house
What, I sometimes ask myself, does Waf dream? In his tiny little home, inside of a larger home, surrounded as he is by cushions and squeak toys. Surrounded, as he is, by a larger world of which he has no knowledge, except on occasions where he ventures out into it, strapped to a human, harnessed in a vest, taking one step after one quick step, indulged in sniffs and squats, until returned again to the bigger house that encloses the smaller house and the cushions and the toys.

What does Waf dream?

His legs shake the cushioned house. He emits a tight, vague 'Marf." Then a stuccato follow-up as the tiny cushioned house shakes.

Perhaps he is remembering his previous owner. A young woman, sad. A young woman with kindness in her eyes and a story of icy silence when asked, Why are you giving us this dog? Perhaps he is remembering his youth as Tobey, his first name before his final name. Tobey. I say it, and he still stirs in his sleep.

You're talking about me. Goddammt.
Waf is asleep. Greg, my husband, is asleep. We are all in a spacious room on a giant planet in an expansive, if not depleting, universe, but Waf is in his house inside the limitless space of everything.

Outside that house, there are complications and squirrels and chemical reactions. And there's Tobey, Waffles' first name, inspired by I do not understand because who the hell names a dog Tobey?

And there's Greg and myself, who have a dog named Waffles. In a world more large and terrifying than Waf can dream. And the dreams fall faintly on Waf, and fall, like descent of their last end, upon all the Tobeys and the Wafs.

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