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I met her on a Christmas Eve, five, maybe six, years ago. She was small for her breed, petite, paws more like cat's feet than terrier's; eyes limpid, moist, full of feeling; a satin Christmas collar around her delicate neck. Her name was Tatum. Ta-tum. The syllables rolled off the tongue. I loved her. I don't know what exactly I'm making fun of here. I really did like this dog; nothing to be embarassed about. I kept her picture the way you'd keep a photo of a child. I figured we had crossed paths for a reason, and I determined to honor that fact by cherishing her image. I liked the fact that she had wings on in the picture. I never actually saw her fly, but people said it was very cool. The way it worked, I heard, was that R_ would string her up, harnessed, onto a wire that stretched the length of the club, and she would actually leap off her little platform near the ceiling to zing down the wire's length all the way to the stage. Jumping through fiery hoops was another of her talents, as was the inclination to leap up and pull a person's shorts off-- like in the old Coppertone ads. So she was a performer, and a good one. When I met her I was going through a kind of shy phase, not entirely comfortable with myself. I had grown my hair pretty long and had taken to hiding behind it, which was not attractive. I admired Tatum's short-haired fearlessness, her joy in demonstrating her considerable talents, the way she lit up when all eyes were upon her. I'm being kind of flippant again but I don't mean it. It's a defensive thing... It was actually really cool to see a dog be so happy and entertaining. And I was a big sad bore. So I killed her. No, I didn't really. But it seems like I'm leading up to some kind of crisis here...and I'm really not. I didn't kill her. But there was this funny night when we were all at this party and R_ had brought Tatum. Everyone was doting on her. (Something to notice some time is how people when they're flirting like to stroke animals as they exchange innuendoes. This happened a lot that night.) Tatum was passed around like a drug--and she was exhausted. I was exhausted too, from hiding behind my hair, and from slouching. Slouching is a big strain on the system. So I scooped Tatum up and climbed the stairs to T_'s bedroom, groped around for the light, took one look at Tatum and choked with horror. There was a big dark red stain on the top of her head, a hideous wound. I sank to the floor with her, marveling at her stoicism, her canine sangfroid. I angled her head toward the light to get a better look, parted the bloody fur. Blood came off on my hands. But it wasn't blood at all. It was sort of greasy, bizarrely fragrant. Lipstick. The mark of a thousand painted kisses on her head. Another reason to admire this creature. The End.
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