Some days, I don’t think Daddy understands me. And I come here and I think, how can I make him see? About the ducks. (Christ, the ducks!) Or the way the water calls to me and draws me close. The way you can make out the trees reflecting from its surface, and when I stick my paw in it, a gentle circle forms and then disappears. Or about the way the goose poop smells on the sidewalk and on the grass and how sometimes it’s all I can do to keep myself from rubbing my neck all in it.

He just doesn’t understand these things. I’m afraid he never will. And the despair is almost too much to take.

But then later when I’m licking his ears, which I like to do, or when I bring him the ball and he gives me chicken, or when he’s making salads and he lowers his hand and inside is a crisp hunk of carrot, so beautiful and orange and crunchy, I realize it’s really not so bad. And maybe he gets me after all. In his own way.

And then I reckon it’s okay about the ducks.

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