If Sunlight Were A Dog
If sunlight were a dog I would have one. I never had a dog but sunlight will do just fine. I imagine the look she would give as she sits there, staring up at me with those soulful eyes, her large oven-mitt golden paws stretched from one wall to the other. Every morning she would be at my door begging to be let in. “Did you put the sun out last night?” my wife asks. “Of course I did. Silly bitch,” I say, quickly clarifying that I was referring to the sunlight and not to her!
When I let her in she is at my face, licking my lips and cheeks – she will not let me sleep. Finally, I raise the shades and let her in careful to make certain that she has peed because if I am not attentive she ends up peeing orange juice all over the floor. “If we can only get her to shit bacon and eggs we’d have breakfast,” I tell my wife. She is not amused.
My wife is not a “sun” person. Never has been. Growing up in Portland she is very nervous around all forms of light. She hates the way the sun drools all over her couches and fades the upholstery and carpets. She hates it when she comes in from outside and shakes spreading dust everywhere. Still I think deep down she loves how sunlight keeps her feet warm in the winter, streaming through our double paned thermal windows and coiling around her feet. Even in bed, sunlight snuggles up close to us and warms us up.
During the dog days of summer, she will be the laziest thing, looking like spilled paint on the floor, so motionless and flat. During these days, there is no shade at all for her to chase and I know she will just get bored.
In time, I imagine my wife will come around. At the end of every day, sunlight will enter the family room and put her head on the ottoman and just close her eyes. At times like these my wife will look over to me and I at her, we smile at each other. The sunlight cheers us both up – my wife tries to deny this but deep down she knows it’s true. I promise my wife that I will take her to sunlight obedience school so we could do more with her. But as the moon slowly rises and sunlight closes her eyes we will both feel grateful for such a wondrous thing in our lives. As sunlight closes her eyes, she is breathing like a sparrow, we will both feel at once blessed and at home.
M C Biegner
4/2006
When I let her in she is at my face, licking my lips and cheeks – she will not let me sleep. Finally, I raise the shades and let her in careful to make certain that she has peed because if I am not attentive she ends up peeing orange juice all over the floor. “If we can only get her to shit bacon and eggs we’d have breakfast,” I tell my wife. She is not amused.
My wife is not a “sun” person. Never has been. Growing up in Portland she is very nervous around all forms of light. She hates the way the sun drools all over her couches and fades the upholstery and carpets. She hates it when she comes in from outside and shakes spreading dust everywhere. Still I think deep down she loves how sunlight keeps her feet warm in the winter, streaming through our double paned thermal windows and coiling around her feet. Even in bed, sunlight snuggles up close to us and warms us up.
During the dog days of summer, she will be the laziest thing, looking like spilled paint on the floor, so motionless and flat. During these days, there is no shade at all for her to chase and I know she will just get bored.
In time, I imagine my wife will come around. At the end of every day, sunlight will enter the family room and put her head on the ottoman and just close her eyes. At times like these my wife will look over to me and I at her, we smile at each other. The sunlight cheers us both up – my wife tries to deny this but deep down she knows it’s true. I promise my wife that I will take her to sunlight obedience school so we could do more with her. But as the moon slowly rises and sunlight closes her eyes we will both feel grateful for such a wondrous thing in our lives. As sunlight closes her eyes, she is breathing like a sparrow, we will both feel at once blessed and at home.
M C Biegner
4/2006
posted by M C Biegner at 10:28 PM
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