I remember the night you brought home the dog. It was maybe three a.m. and I had to get up for breakfast with my boss to discuss the quarter's paltry sales numbers. Because the garage door opener was on the fritz and you felt strongly that you had to get the dog into the basement (couldn't leave it in the convertible, it might jump out), you had to sequester our shepherd in the bedroom. I woke the first time when you opened the door and shoved Bart inside—whining and nails scraping on the hardwood—so you could coax the stray through the house.
I often wonder about the meaning of your rescuing the dog that night. Did waking me like that signify you already regarded our marriage as effectively over? Was it important that you were on your way home from the night shift at the restaurant and not some bar? Was, perhaps, the dog a talisman for you? Were you trying to save yourself by saving the dog? Trying to save us by jumping out of the car to rescue the dog from the middle of a busy freeway south of Echo Park ?
After the dog bit you on the back porch and ran off yapping into the woods and I had to get up to drive you to the hospital before dawn, maybe I could have opened my heart and fallen back in love as you slumped in the passenger seat, eyes drooping and a dishtowel wrapped around your bloody hand, but all I could see—and you pushed me to wear these blinders, I swear—was another acrobatic morning and splashes of red fixing to the car seat.