God Only Threw the Humans Out of Paradise [1b/?]
anonymous
March 15 2010, 07:51:18 UTC
My human has a lot of things in his house. There are so many smells, so much to see, so much to explore. As soon as he puts me down, I’m off, scrabbling across his slickery floors, clack-a clack-a clack-a. I sniff his furniture. I sniff the corners. I sniff the fireplace. I sniff the floor cabinets in the kitchen. I sniff the bottom of the refrigerator. I sniff the carpet-covered steps leading up onto the sitting-place.
Then I bounce up them, and I sniff the corners of the sitting-place, too. I smell other dogs, but only kinda, like they haven’t been there in a very long time. I sniff the book on the table next to the sitting-place. Then, the human comes and scoots me over, and sits down. Smells are forgotten. I clamber in his lap and lean up and kiss his face. He chuckles and leans his head back so that I can’t reach his nose and mouth, just his chin and neck.
I stop and look curious when he picks up the book. He opens it. There are other dogs, very very small, all over the pages. My human is talking again. He presses his paw against the first dog. It doesn’t move. It’s very flat.
“This was my first Al,” he says softly. “He was born on December 14, 1861. Clumbers were Albert’s favourites, and...Her Majesty could hardly bear to keep them herself, after Albert died, but...she kept the pups close anyway. Something used to come over her when Al was around. And he always knew it, too. Like he knew that he was born on the day that she lost her heart...” I crane my head up and lick the trails of saltwater from his face. He quickly turns the page.
“I didn’t get my second Al until 1875...”
I listen patiently as he goes through the whole book. Three, 1892. Four, 1905. Five, 1925. Six, 1947. Seven, 1952. Eight, 1970. Nine, 1983.
I’m Ten, he says. 1997. Then he goes quiet, and stares at the book.
I wag my tail and get a head start on the trails of salt on his face this time.
Then I bounce up them, and I sniff the corners of the sitting-place, too. I smell other dogs, but only kinda, like they haven’t been there in a very long time. I sniff the book on the table next to the sitting-place. Then, the human comes and scoots me over, and sits down. Smells are forgotten. I clamber in his lap and lean up and kiss his face. He chuckles and leans his head back so that I can’t reach his nose and mouth, just his chin and neck.
I stop and look curious when he picks up the book. He opens it. There are other dogs, very very small, all over the pages. My human is talking again. He presses his paw against the first dog. It doesn’t move. It’s very flat.
“This was my first Al,” he says softly. “He was born on December 14, 1861. Clumbers were Albert’s favourites, and...Her Majesty could hardly bear to keep them herself, after Albert died, but...she kept the pups close anyway. Something used to come over her when Al was around. And he always knew it, too. Like he knew that he was born on the day that she lost her heart...” I crane my head up and lick the trails of saltwater from his face. He quickly turns the page.
“I didn’t get my second Al until 1875...”
I listen patiently as he goes through the whole book. Three, 1892. Four, 1905. Five, 1925. Six, 1947. Seven, 1952. Eight, 1970. Nine, 1983.
I’m Ten, he says. 1997. Then he goes quiet, and stares at the book.
I wag my tail and get a head start on the trails of salt on his face this time.
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