The Day the Dogs Died by Bree Barton

Cease, Cows

We probably deserved it. For years we grabbed them by the scruffs of their necks, snapped at them for scraping chicken bones off the asphalt with their tongues. We hated bathing them, hated their wet-rug stench, hated chasing tumbleweeds of fur from corner to corner of our houses.

Of course there were certain things we liked. The ever-present warmth at our feet, the tick-tick-tick of little nails on hardwood. We admired the surgical efficiency with which they removed the stuffing from a chew toy or made a rawhide blossom on the kitchen floor. We reveled in the pleasure of being needed, puffed ourselves up on the luxury of being loved.

Buddha dog “Buddha dog” (image via Flickr user SuperFantastic)

And oh, the sounds. What sounds they made! Great tectonic symphonies of bays and howls and whimpers, balloons deflating, whales dying, humans making love. So much like hungry infants that we devised a…

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