The State of the Novel (3)

The Novel Comforts the Household Pet

Our dog was old and stiff, so The Novel visited and lay on the floor with her, running his open palm over her length, singing, mysweetmysweetmysweetiepieoldpuppydog.

The dog lifted her head. The Novel removed his shoes and socks to let the her lick his feet. He sang, suchanicefootbathmysweetiesweetpuppydog.

My husband watched, and as he was on his third cosmopolitan he began to weep.

Later I told The Novel the shame I felt over my husband’s need to liberate his emotions through heavy drink.

The Novel took me into his arms and kissed me so fully that it was as rain falling through leaves. Then he said, You are his one true love. When you kiss him it is like a mountain stream pouring out of the heavy forest and spreading over a smooth ledge.

The Novel made an omelet and fed me with the fork utensil on his Boy Scout knife. He sawed off a section of omelet and placed it on my tongue. As my lips closed over the fork tines I tasted mushrooms and cheese and thought of the summer my father took us camping on the Upper Hudson.