Member-only story
Now you do. Meet Big Head.
I follow Dad down the stairs and build speed across the lawn. He opens the truck’s door, and I eye the opening, calculate my trajectory, and leave the ground. Even with the running start, my rear lags, the thousands of previous leaps and bounds taking their toll. On cue, Dad is there with a perfectly timed push on my ass, and I’m into my copilot seat ready for a fishing trip. Surrounded by a cloud of cream fur, I hack like an old man needing another puff from his inhaler and rest my chin on the hair-crusted armrest.
It’s embarrassing needing that nudge into the truck, but my snout is white, and that damn mole on my cheek grows bigger every day. Some would say these are my golden years, but that’s bullshit because all my years are golden.
In my first golden year, I ate wild goat, buckets of lamb hearts, and beef livers. I didn’t visit dog parks or go for leashed runs. I charged in one direction for miles — curling over horizons, stopping to lick my goods, and having deep thoughts on where I should piss. I figured I’d score with the local ladies and mark the same fence poles all my life — and I probably would have if I hadn’t met Dad.
Actually, I take that back. I’d be decaying bone fragments if I hadn’t met him, because I had a problem that…
