STATUS

no

Gay

Hi.

Last night I had a dream about my little sister's dog, Sophie. Sophie: the half-pomeranian, half shih-tzu, the tiny black ball of fur with an underbite, like something from Henson's creature shop, who was a birthday gift to my sister a few months after my parents' divorce. Sophie, the old bag of hair who my brother once fed an entire sleeve of pepperonis to, who had a habit of sniffing between the oven and cabinets, around bookshelves, under couches, covering herself in dust bunnies. Sophie, who, one Christmas, hopped onto a chair twice her height and devoured the meringue off of a chocolate pie cooling on the table, who was unnaturally afraid of rainstorms, who watched my sister grow from a first-grader with a disproportionately large head into a woman in her mid-twenties. Sophie, who spent her last few years with my mother; Sophie, whose breath bubbled up like clouds of rot from her bloated stomach, who stroked out for an hour and then got up like nothing was wrong, as if she rebooted--but she never recognized me again. Sophie, who my mother put down about a year ago.

In my dream, Sophie ran up to me like she used to, stood on her hind legs, spun around in circles. I petted her head, traced circles behind her ear. She rolled onto her back, wanting me to scratch her belly, which I always found kind of gross--the way the skin is bare and soft--but I acquiesced like I always did. I scratched and scratched and scratched. She seemed really happy.

Oh Esby. I own this album because of you.