A Boiler In My Dog's Stomach
My dog's stomach sounded like a washing machine set on high and hot.
He was laying between my mother and me Off the couch,
but not because we told him to, the couch was too covered with stuff.
Pillows, a bag of knitting needles and yarn, technical devices,
strings and bobbles all of which he would refuse to touch.
He does get on the couch, but not when it's covered with stuff,
stuff vs dog, stuff wins.
There was thunder crackling outside like semi-trucks on a bumpy road
and it had been muggy all day, like a stray tarp had fallen over the sky
and there was no escaping it, just dull, dreary, dank life. Hot too, it was 80s easy.
The thing is, my dog's afraid of storms, usually, well, only if my sister
and my father are around. If it's just my mom and myself, he's fine.
Today, it was just us.
After the thunder started we heard this gurgling, and she thought it was me
and I knew it was him on the floor staring lazily at the TV with his ears flopped out
like a bunny eared antenna which was a bit loose and wiggled out to the side.
That was his relaxed pose, one foot folded under him, invisible like an amputee
the other paw out as a shield to his mouth when really it was his third side
of a triangle toward stability. This was his lazy pose, and yet
his stomach was rolling like a pot of boiling water in a bag
gurgling, and sloshing, and bubbling about.
The funniest thing was that it had an ambient noise quality to it
like white noise that never stopped, but occasionally it would gurgle out his mouth
and he would turn his head a little and look up at one of us,
A lost puppy afraid to be afraid because maybe, scraps? So we cracked up
laughing, and he stuck his head back down with the weight of a dead car.
Copyright © Andrea Edwards | Year Posted 2016
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