The tip of his nose is moist and warm -slightly darker than the rest of his body. His skin is soft, covered with short grey hair. I caress his forehead. I’m not scared of those big white sharp teeth of his either. I put my left hand right in his mouth and hold his lower jaw. I don’t know why really -I’m playing. He doesn’t mind. His breath stinks though, which checks out: he would literally eat anything. He yawns. Looks like when a human yawns, and sounds the same too. He’s no human though; he’s a dog.
I remember his eyes were the color of a blue sky. Now, more of a light brown. He’s gotten older too. The palms of his hands, one day small enough to fit in my fists, are now thick and rugged. His body is warm, which makes me want to hug him tight and put the side of my head on his neck. hugs, though, are not really his thing, and he always wiggles himself free. He doesn’t get it -he’s a dog. His eyes observing, questioning, darting left and right, up and down; his soft belly rising and falling in fast rhythm -much faster than the human rhythm of my breathing. Just how it is; he’s doing fine. But he’s hungry. He’s always hungry.
Round tan pellets of dog food rattle the metal bowl. There’s a distant echo of my voice uttering the word “food”. Then there’s the smells of beef or chicken or fish, vegetables, and who-knows-what-else that is in these magic pellets. His ears rise up. His moist nose goes into overdrive. Memories of wonderful tastes come flooding back. And then he jumps up like a coiled spring, taking his place beside the metal bowl. Drooling, sitting like a really, really, really good boy, waiting for his permission to eat.
Always, always hungry.