Earnest Attempt at Prose №1 (27 July 2017)
As I write this, my puppy Elena Kagan has dragged in her “teddy bear,” a stuffed dog with a battery-powered beating heart that she’s turned into her prison bitch. Laney is giving it the business right now, her jaws around the lifeless canine’s neck, and she’s shaking it to and fro, throwing it into the ropes, and pouncing again. Ruth Bader Ginsburg, my middle-aged tabby cat, espies this aggression and tries to slink away, but no luck. Laney has seen her, and she’s got her blood up and she wants to play NOW GODDAMMIT.
Ruthie is the progeny of jungle cats; she is faster than Laney ever will be, a better athlete and altogether more dangerous. She gives a low warning “rooooow” and nimbly jumps up onto the desk. Laney gives chase, but it’s all she can to do generate any momentum at all. She runs with her whole body, her short legs covered in soft tufts of fur, which prevents her from gaining purchase against the wooden floor of my office. She’s a Hanna-Barbera cartoon, her legs moving wildly without advancing the rest of her body. By the time she’s Scooby-Doo’d it to within striking distance, Ruthie is assessing her cooly from the safety of her vantage point.
Defeated, Elena Kagan moves over to the small circular fan on the ground to get a blow. The air pushes her white hair back off of her head and against her face. This is the reason why you get a dog like this in the first place, to see that fur blowing like a storm.

