Dogs and Apples
Jon Sindell | Allen Forrest
He hurled words to stop her from packing. “It’s that I’m a dog and you’re an apple.” She stopped and wrinkled her brow without amusement. “Dogs have no molars, but they eat apples because they’re so juicy and sweet. And I want you even though I’m not suited for you.”
She had grown too weary of his mad ways to laugh, and resumed flinging garments into her bag.
“I’m like Oswego,” he said, “always wanting physical contact.”
“True that,” she agreed, and with a wry smile, thrust her jewelry into the bag.
“I’m as loyal as a dog. I just want to be with you everywhere.”
“You’re a constant companion,” she acknowledged, with an edge to her voice that he discerned. He hung his head as he recalled crashing her yoga class and hovering over her book club.
“I’ve been bad,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t stay when you told me “Stay!’” Oswego, her retriever, sat puzzling over their tense exchange. “Oswego is better,” he said with remorse.
She set hands on hips and looked down at him. Her lip twitched a little, her brow wrinkled slightly.
“I see you agree.” He moaned with self–pity.
“No you don’t see! You hear! Everything! With a dog’s supersonic hearing, you do! You hear things that normal humans can’t hear. Even things that aren’t there!”
“Then I’ll change!” he howled as she rushed towards the door with Oswego in tow.