that I could simply, casually, disappear.
I could have, in my days with Jack. Often during our time on the street I would go for a stroll. I had physical needs to attend to, after all; Jack understood that. Sometimes I wandered out of his line of vision, turning the corner, simply checking the neighborhood. In truth, I was always on the lookout for two things: the appearance of Scar, so that I could flee (later, as I developed more self-confidence, I began to think that instead of fleeing I might fight), or the appearance of my lost sister, Wispy, who I always hoped might be somewhere just around the corner, looking for me.
Occasionally I glimpsed Scar. He was usually lurking some distance away, not noticing me, so that I was never called upon to make the crucial decision between fleeing and fighting. I would watch from my safe stance as he terrorized some other puppy or human. Our last confrontation had been indecisive, and I knew I must one day face him again. In those last days with Jack, my attention had been solely directed to my friend. It had not been a time for battle. But I had vowed that when the time was right, I would drive Scar from the neighborhood forever.
I had composed a valiant little ode that I murmured to myself whenever I saw my mortal enemy. It made me feel strong while safely postponing any real dangerous action.
I vow this, Scar, with all my might!
Someday I'll beat you in a fight!
It was a silly little couplet, and I thought I could do better; I wanted, actually, to try to rhyme the word confrontation, now that I had a greater and more sophisticated command of language. But I simply hadn't gotten around to it yet; I'd been so busy with my career.
As for Wispy, and my search, I simply repeated as a little talisman
Wispy, sister, hear my rhyme—
I'll seek you till the end of time!
(I had originally composed till the end of my life, which I felt was more truthful and accurate, but as a poem it was simply too amateurish.) I had some small hope that my repetition of the verse might magically cause her to reappear someday. But in my wanderings during those months with Jack, there was never the slightest glimpse. Sometimes I would see a little female who reminded me of my sister, but on close examination, on an exchange of sniffs, there was only disappointment and the awareness that the world was very full of little crossbreed females with mottled fur and inadequate, crooked tails.
I always returned to Jack after a stroll. I had no inclination to stray from the place of greatest comfort and camaraderie.
Similarly, in the early days with the photographer, there were countless opportunities for me to run off. There were no leash, no cage, no conditions. I remained because he was kind, because he fed me pasta, and because his plaid bathrobe had a pungent and agreeable smell.
Now things had changed. Now the dog walker had a hideous retractable leash, which of course required that a collar be placed around my neck. The photographer had a new cashmere bathrobe, which made me sneeze, and shared pasta seemed a thing of the past. Now I was famous and rich, and my food was served to me in a Santa Fe pottery bowl that was embellished with my name, PAL, on its side. But I no longer had the freedom to walk away.
During the day, when I was working at various locations, there were always guards, off-duty policemen hired to hold back the crowds who waved and whistled at me. The Jeep was a thing of the past, relegated to the garage, and I was whisked from spot to spot by limo. While the photographer talked business on the cell phone, I pressed my nose sadly against the tinted glass, no longer worried about the smears, only longing for a life beyond the confines of what my own had become.
At each new location I would be collared, leashed, and led to a place where I was told to attend to my bodily needs. Sometimes a bowl of water would be brought, or a dry-tasting biscuit would be handed to me by one of the
I could have, in my days with Jack. Often during our time on the street I would go for a stroll. I had physical needs to attend to, after all; Jack understood that. Sometimes I wandered out of his line of vision, turning the corner, simply checking the neighborhood. In truth, I was always on the lookout for two things: the appearance of Scar, so that I could flee (later, as I developed more self-confidence, I began to think that instead of fleeing I might fight), or the appearance of my lost sister, Wispy, who I always hoped might be somewhere just around the corner, looking for me.
Occasionally I glimpsed Scar. He was usually lurking some distance away, not noticing me, so that I was never called upon to make the crucial decision between fleeing and fighting. I would watch from my safe stance as he terrorized some other puppy or human. Our last confrontation had been indecisive, and I knew I must one day face him again. In those last days with Jack, my attention had been solely directed to my friend. It had not been a time for battle. But I had vowed that when the time was right, I would drive Scar from the neighborhood forever.
I had composed a valiant little ode that I murmured to myself whenever I saw my mortal enemy. It made me feel strong while safely postponing any real dangerous action.
I vow this, Scar, with all my might!
Someday I'll beat you in a fight!
It was a silly little couplet, and I thought I could do better; I wanted, actually, to try to rhyme the word confrontation, now that I had a greater and more sophisticated command of language. But I simply hadn't gotten around to it yet; I'd been so busy with my career.
As for Wispy, and my search, I simply repeated as a little talisman
Wispy, sister, hear my rhyme—
I'll seek you till the end of time!
(I had originally composed till the end of my life, which I felt was more truthful and accurate, but as a poem it was simply too amateurish.) I had some small hope that my repetition of the verse might magically cause her to reappear someday. But in my wanderings during those months with Jack, there was never the slightest glimpse. Sometimes I would see a little female who reminded me of my sister, but on close examination, on an exchange of sniffs, there was only disappointment and the awareness that the world was very full of little crossbreed females with mottled fur and inadequate, crooked tails.
I always returned to Jack after a stroll. I had no inclination to stray from the place of greatest comfort and camaraderie.
Similarly, in the early days with the photographer, there were countless opportunities for me to run off. There were no leash, no cage, no conditions. I remained because he was kind, because he fed me pasta, and because his plaid bathrobe had a pungent and agreeable smell.
Now things had changed. Now the dog walker had a hideous retractable leash, which of course required that a collar be placed around my neck. The photographer had a new cashmere bathrobe, which made me sneeze, and shared pasta seemed a thing of the past. Now I was famous and rich, and my food was served to me in a Santa Fe pottery bowl that was embellished with my name, PAL, on its side. But I no longer had the freedom to walk away.
During the day, when I was working at various locations, there were always guards, off-duty policemen hired to hold back the crowds who waved and whistled at me. The Jeep was a thing of the past, relegated to the garage, and I was whisked from spot to spot by limo. While the photographer talked business on the cell phone, I pressed my nose sadly against the tinted glass, no longer worried about the smears, only longing for a life beyond the confines of what my own had become.
At each new location I would be collared, leashed, and led to a place where I was told to attend to my bodily needs. Sometimes a bowl of water would be brought, or a dry-tasting biscuit would be handed to me by one of the
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