My Dog Spot

My Dog Spot

Spot is a good dog. Except the day that he wasn't. but that day passed. I've forgiven Spot. His room is the basement.

He does tricks. He can even talk.

He sits on his haunches, stares at me with big chocolate eyes.

He says, " I'm sorry, Daddy."

I say "its ok Spot."

But Spot, crying, messes on the floor. He's five. He's not a puppy anymore. It makes me angry. I lose my temper.

I hurt Spot. He cowers. I shove his nose in the mess. He whimpers. But I keep hurting Spot.

I leave the basement. Spot stopped crying and he lays on the floor. But I know he's ok.

He's a good dog.

I remember the day Spot was born. I took him home, but his mother didn't join us.

That was Spot's fault. He was too big. "Complications." They had said.

He still smelled of bloody afterbirth. Even years later.

He's getting big. We go on walks. Spot is good. He doesn't need a leash.

Strangers pass. They look at Spot curiously. They say hello. I say hello

But Spot knows better than to talk to strangers. I told him never to sat anything. Anything at all.

Never about the basement. Or the mess.

"Because they won't believe you." I tell him. " Because of what you did to mommy."

He stops crying. Stops talking.

He used to think he was a person,

But now he knows he's a dog.

A good dog.