It’s not you, it’s me

It’s not your smell when you are wet or your farts.

It’s not your twitchiness when you dream, I like that.

It’s not your dog breath, that, goes without saying.

It’s not your misty left eye or your leaky tear duct, though that does make you look forlorn.

It’s not your copious golden coat, that you leave traces of for me everywhere you go.

It’s not your look of disappointment when I put your lead on, instead of you just running free.

It’s not your piles of steaming dog poo, which, I must admit, I don’t really enjoy picking up, even on cold and frosty mornings.

It’s not the hang dog look you give me a s I leave you.

It’s not you, it’s me.

I’m not sure my mangy dog hair-do and metallic mouth, and leaky tear ducts can manage you being dependent on me. Dependent on me for company, for food, for water, for walkies, wee-ies and shit-ies.

I worry that I will let you down and you won’t like the imposed lifestyle change living without your partner in doggy grime and fur.

I worry that your hang-dog look will stay with you for good.

I worry that my curtailed independence will be curtailed further still, more than I want, by the need for your tail to wag as you run. I can’t get home late, or stay out with you here. I have to put your first, but I think I need to put me and my needs first for the time being.

I worry that I will become resentful of you and your needs, and that’s not fair of me.

I worry.

You’re a dog, and if you do worry, it doesn’t show.

I want the company and Dog Therapy, but I’m not sure that we were meant to be together.

It’s not you, it’s me.

The clinch: I took you for a long walk. Autumnal air, blue skies, low sunshine, the crispness of late October. You rolled in shit. The stinkiest, stickiest, smelliest shite you could find. Is that gratitude, I ask?

It’s not you, it’s me. Written  at the end the week long Lab Trial.

Vicky Galbraith, 26th October 2011

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