I’m no gossip.
I try to stay away from the type of person who uses the affairs of others as a source of trite conversation. At the same time though, I understand that sometimes you need to thrash it out, so you don’t harbour it inside and end up walking around with your tail between your legs. What I’m trying to say is that a lot of stuff has gone down and I need to talk. So here it is.
I am a great person to live with. I’m happy all the time. They’re the ones who fought, and if I said anything during one of their altercations I was ignored. On occasion he’d even march me to the back door, and ask me to leave. I never had anything to say to that, so I’d slink past them and have the door slammed behind me – which never ceases to give me the shock of my life. Sometimes our neighbour poked his head over the fence. I’d always say hello to him, but at times like this he’d be more concerned with what was going on inside. I don’t blame him.
If I wasn’t thrown out, I’d go hide somewhere anyway. To his credit he’d always seek me out when they stopped shouting. I’d try to stay hidden for as long as possible so I could relish in the post fight lilt he’d give my name, but in these situations I generally cave in because I know I’ll get a cuddle. I’m a pretty tactile being.
Living arrangements: I crashed on the couch and they slept upstairs. I’ve only seen it a few times, but the bedroom is unbelievable. In the beginning a scent used to come from there at night, which wafted all the way down to where I curl up. I don’t know – if a smell can be important yet lusty this was it. As time passed I smelt it less and less. And then I couldn’t smell it at all.
Some back-story: She moved in seven years ago. I sensed something was up on the day of her arrival. I didn’t know what it was – he didn’t approach me about it – but there was a different feeling in the air. He was pacing in the living room and occasionally he’d turn to me and say, ‘Is this a good idea?’ I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say. Then I heard someone and ran to the door, but he pushed me aside and told me to be quiet. It always hurts to be treated like this, but when he opened the door and they laughed and hugged and she turned to me and spoke so affectionately, I couldn’t help forget my minor woes. I love a good party.
When he was at home she was great. She seemed really happy for me to be around and the three of us would have a great time sitting on the couch or alike. When he was out however, she treated me like I didn’t exist. I might wander into the kitchen and attempt a bit of banter only to have her finish up the dishes and walk straight past me. It was confusing. I never brought it up with him because I didn’t think he’d understand. So I just dealt with it – and I wasn’t left alone with her that often – I had the home to myself most days anyway.
Once every seven years, he is amazingly nice to me. I know when this day is because in the morning he calls me into his bedroom. I am never allowed in there except on these days. I always run up the stairs and literally leap onto the bed – I’m that excited. He pays me an almost overly generous amount of attention, and then it’s on: Breakfast is a hundred times better than usual – I get gifts, and some serious lovin’.
Things began to take a turn one day when he came home and threw his briefcase across the kitchen (it almost hit me). What I gathered from his tone and body language was that someone, from wherever he went daily, had told him off quite seriously. In fact, whatever had happened had been so bad they he was now home every day. On paper, this seemed ideal to me, but in reality, it didn’t prove to be a positive step. I like to drink – I think it’s necessary – but now he was always drinking, and not after a big run when you really crave it. It made him smell sour, I didn’t care for it much and after a while neither did she. She would come home, smell him, and then they’d fight.
He started to carry himself differently around this time; like he was wearing a collar that was too tight and made him hunch. When she was home they wouldn’t even sit in the same room. It was all so heavy and I felt like a middleman; wandering from room to room trying to be helpful but being told in a tone I didn’t like that my presence wasn’t welcome.
There was a brief moment when things went back to normal. One morning she left the house earlier than usual with a bag on wheels. An hour later I heard feet at the door. For once he was friendly, and the female was nice too, but they weren’t around for long. They rushed upstairs and were groaning at each other until that waft drifted to where I lay on the couch. It was like a pleasant memory and I could’ve savoured it forever. But then she came back.
There was a key in the door and I ran to dish out my obligatory welcome. Her head poked around and she called out. I answered, but she ignored me. She came inside and called again. I stood in her path, trying to get a little attention. She looked down at me and said something horrible and kicked me as hard as she could. I yelped, crashing against the wall as she strode past. I hid as I heard her making lots of noise upstairs. They were screaming at the top of their lungs. The female who I didn’t know ran past me putting shoes on and doing up buttons. The screaming continued until she came down with two suitcases with wheels. She shouted something out, flung open the door, and slammed it behind her so hard a picture fell off the wall and smashed right next to where I was hidden under the couch. I could see the photo; it was of the three of us down at the park. Although I’ve got my tongue out, it’s a great photo and it was a stark reminder of how quickly things can go wrong.
It got dark, but I stayed under the couch (I’d had enough drama for one day). Finally he came downstairs, but instead of seeing the picture she’d smashed, he saw what I’d done. When she’d kicked me I got so scared that I … made a mess on the ground. He called me and when I came out he grabbed me by the neck and forced my face into the mess. I couldn’t believe it. As if all this was my fault! At that point I lost control of my emotions and started to howl. His face changed immediately and any anger that was inside him dissipated and was replaced with genuine remorse. He took me out the back and hosed down my face and dried me off. He cuddled me and told me he loved me. I couldn’t count how many times he said sorry but every one of them was as sweet as the one before it. I followed him around as he began collecting bottles from different places around the house. After he’d picked up every last one (he filled the bin), we sat on the couch and watched some trashy TV.
A week after she left it was that day I mentioned before: Where I get gifts and surprises for apparently no reason. That evening he and I were having a bit of a wrestle on the couch and the bell at the door chimed. Since my kicking, I’ve been a little reluctant to have guests over, because I fear it’s her returning. But it was a man with a box that smelt like I’d died and gone to heaven. There was a brief exchange and the box was brought over to me. It was opened and there laid a delicious looking circle topped with delicacies I had never even seen before. My best friend pulled a triangle from it and yellow stringy tendrils stretched until they finally gave way. He handed it to me, smiling, and when I was done (under three seconds), he handed me another and told me he loved me.
It’s the simple things.
I try to stay away from the type of person who uses the affairs of others as a source of trite conversation. At the same time though, I understand that sometimes you need to thrash it out, so you don’t harbour it inside and end up walking around with your tail between your legs. What I’m trying to say is that a lot of stuff has gone down and I need to talk. So here it is.
I am a great person to live with. I’m happy all the time. They’re the ones who fought, and if I said anything during one of their altercations I was ignored. On occasion he’d even march me to the back door, and ask me to leave. I never had anything to say to that, so I’d slink past them and have the door slammed behind me – which never ceases to give me the shock of my life. Sometimes our neighbour poked his head over the fence. I’d always say hello to him, but at times like this he’d be more concerned with what was going on inside. I don’t blame him.
If I wasn’t thrown out, I’d go hide somewhere anyway. To his credit he’d always seek me out when they stopped shouting. I’d try to stay hidden for as long as possible so I could relish in the post fight lilt he’d give my name, but in these situations I generally cave in because I know I’ll get a cuddle. I’m a pretty tactile being.
Living arrangements: I crashed on the couch and they slept upstairs. I’ve only seen it a few times, but the bedroom is unbelievable. In the beginning a scent used to come from there at night, which wafted all the way down to where I curl up. I don’t know – if a smell can be important yet lusty this was it. As time passed I smelt it less and less. And then I couldn’t smell it at all.
Some back-story: She moved in seven years ago. I sensed something was up on the day of her arrival. I didn’t know what it was – he didn’t approach me about it – but there was a different feeling in the air. He was pacing in the living room and occasionally he’d turn to me and say, ‘Is this a good idea?’ I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say. Then I heard someone and ran to the door, but he pushed me aside and told me to be quiet. It always hurts to be treated like this, but when he opened the door and they laughed and hugged and she turned to me and spoke so affectionately, I couldn’t help forget my minor woes. I love a good party.
When he was at home she was great. She seemed really happy for me to be around and the three of us would have a great time sitting on the couch or alike. When he was out however, she treated me like I didn’t exist. I might wander into the kitchen and attempt a bit of banter only to have her finish up the dishes and walk straight past me. It was confusing. I never brought it up with him because I didn’t think he’d understand. So I just dealt with it – and I wasn’t left alone with her that often – I had the home to myself most days anyway.
Once every seven years, he is amazingly nice to me. I know when this day is because in the morning he calls me into his bedroom. I am never allowed in there except on these days. I always run up the stairs and literally leap onto the bed – I’m that excited. He pays me an almost overly generous amount of attention, and then it’s on: Breakfast is a hundred times better than usual – I get gifts, and some serious lovin’.
Things began to take a turn one day when he came home and threw his briefcase across the kitchen (it almost hit me). What I gathered from his tone and body language was that someone, from wherever he went daily, had told him off quite seriously. In fact, whatever had happened had been so bad they he was now home every day. On paper, this seemed ideal to me, but in reality, it didn’t prove to be a positive step. I like to drink – I think it’s necessary – but now he was always drinking, and not after a big run when you really crave it. It made him smell sour, I didn’t care for it much and after a while neither did she. She would come home, smell him, and then they’d fight.
He started to carry himself differently around this time; like he was wearing a collar that was too tight and made him hunch. When she was home they wouldn’t even sit in the same room. It was all so heavy and I felt like a middleman; wandering from room to room trying to be helpful but being told in a tone I didn’t like that my presence wasn’t welcome.
There was a brief moment when things went back to normal. One morning she left the house earlier than usual with a bag on wheels. An hour later I heard feet at the door. For once he was friendly, and the female was nice too, but they weren’t around for long. They rushed upstairs and were groaning at each other until that waft drifted to where I lay on the couch. It was like a pleasant memory and I could’ve savoured it forever. But then she came back.
There was a key in the door and I ran to dish out my obligatory welcome. Her head poked around and she called out. I answered, but she ignored me. She came inside and called again. I stood in her path, trying to get a little attention. She looked down at me and said something horrible and kicked me as hard as she could. I yelped, crashing against the wall as she strode past. I hid as I heard her making lots of noise upstairs. They were screaming at the top of their lungs. The female who I didn’t know ran past me putting shoes on and doing up buttons. The screaming continued until she came down with two suitcases with wheels. She shouted something out, flung open the door, and slammed it behind her so hard a picture fell off the wall and smashed right next to where I was hidden under the couch. I could see the photo; it was of the three of us down at the park. Although I’ve got my tongue out, it’s a great photo and it was a stark reminder of how quickly things can go wrong.
It got dark, but I stayed under the couch (I’d had enough drama for one day). Finally he came downstairs, but instead of seeing the picture she’d smashed, he saw what I’d done. When she’d kicked me I got so scared that I … made a mess on the ground. He called me and when I came out he grabbed me by the neck and forced my face into the mess. I couldn’t believe it. As if all this was my fault! At that point I lost control of my emotions and started to howl. His face changed immediately and any anger that was inside him dissipated and was replaced with genuine remorse. He took me out the back and hosed down my face and dried me off. He cuddled me and told me he loved me. I couldn’t count how many times he said sorry but every one of them was as sweet as the one before it. I followed him around as he began collecting bottles from different places around the house. After he’d picked up every last one (he filled the bin), we sat on the couch and watched some trashy TV.
A week after she left it was that day I mentioned before: Where I get gifts and surprises for apparently no reason. That evening he and I were having a bit of a wrestle on the couch and the bell at the door chimed. Since my kicking, I’ve been a little reluctant to have guests over, because I fear it’s her returning. But it was a man with a box that smelt like I’d died and gone to heaven. There was a brief exchange and the box was brought over to me. It was opened and there laid a delicious looking circle topped with delicacies I had never even seen before. My best friend pulled a triangle from it and yellow stringy tendrils stretched until they finally gave way. He handed it to me, smiling, and when I was done (under three seconds), he handed me another and told me he loved me.
It’s the simple things.
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