When Pets and Their Companions Start to Resemble Each Other

I held the leash like it was sacred, I warned that she spooked easy. He knelt down slowly, extended his hand like a priest offering sacrament to a god built from nerves and ribs. He said good girl too fast. She bit down to the bone, drained the smugness from his face— he earned it, the wound. The scar would preach a gospel he'd finally believe in. Now, when he reaches for warmth, it's with permission. His hand flinches even when it's safe. The nerves didn’t come back right, fireworks in reverse: a cold bloom, then nothing good. Still— there’s a kind of comfort in knowing how easily a creature can taste the air and understand they're not safe, sense they're being lied to. And now, I should say, Beware— I'm a lot like that.