Darkest Hour Before Dawn Thoughts

The g-d dog woke me up again this morning, her nails clicking on the floor back and forth up and down the hallway, needing to go out. She needed to go out to eat grass and retch which was after she had thrown up on the floor at the foot of my bed. I let her out into the honeymoon-lit back yard and then I let her in, closed the door of my bedroom and pushed the wicker hamper in front of it so that she couldn't push the door open and back in. Perhaps as a punishment for my lack of compassion, for my un-dog-loverness, I was unable to go back to sleep and lay on my back for what seemed like hours having the darkest hour before dawn thoughts of loneliness and despair, and then the mediocre thoughts of the awake too early in the morning women. I wonder if Henry will have sex too early? My god, they never gave me a copy of Sophie's IEP before school let out! Should I email that director of the SPED office right now to ask him what the hell? What the hell, anyway? I read a Lydia Davis short story. It was 4 am and then 5am. I served my time, fell back asleep.

Things the Dog Remembers

You're just a party girl who happens to be smart and very pretty, he lifted her ear and whispered, his breath hot. A real female always wears perfume, he told her as she walked down the stairs, her nails clicking on the fake Mexican tile. You need to suffer in order to feel real, he said, closed the book he was reading and insisted that she put on the collar and the leash and stay by his side. You wouldn't know how to be without them, the old doctor said and patted her head.