The days are getting shorter. The clocks have changed so that evening's fading begins at 4pm or so. As I was leaving the apartment in the afternoon yesterday I tried to console Barkley, our dog, that we'd be back in no time. He seemed unconvinced. I'm certain that "daylight savings" is torture for him.
Who knows what anguish we cause. Who knows what unending torture it is for this poor beast to suddenly have to contend with what (to him) must seem like a complete upending of schedule. Those many hours of darkness stretching outward past the conceivable, beyond all doggy measure. I remember a line from "Lolita" that goes something like this, who can say what heartbreaks are caused in a dog by discontinuing a romp. I've always stolen the line from Nabokov but have never found a replacement line for discontinuing a romp that comes across as I'd like it to. When we stop playing isn't as memorable, but romp is not a word I use.
The canine sorrows.... It's all true. The semi-sad pleading with the toy, to throw it one last time. The plaintive look in the eyes to not give up yet, there's still more to accomplish by the throwing of, and the joyful retrieval of, the favored stuffed bunny. The coyness to not bring it back fully, but to tempt and tease the thrower with possession of the desired object, a well-worn two-eared pink toy bunny... a partial return, a time-out, to sit just out of reach, to chew on the poor thing's head.
Rachel gets mad at me, I'll start to chant, "Fuck the bunny, Fuck the bunny, Barkley...!!!" He seems to like this.
He knows.
