I’m a cheater. I cheated. Not only did I take a quick peek at my inbox tonight when I was overwhelmed by curiosity, I also promised you that I would rip out my cyborgian mechanims and investigate what happens with the leftover gaping wound and instead I strapped a giant fluffy dog to the space where my cell phone had been. It’s true. I don’t know if it was loneliness or neediness or severe lack of something to do, but tonight I drove to the westside animal shelter and adopted Xander, a six-year-old australian shepherd mix who somehow looks like an amalgam of every dog I’ve ever loved.
If I were in Philip K. Dick’s novel I would have ordered an electric dog with these exact specifications. Doggie smile, fluffy coat, cheerful personality. He’s friendly, he’s housebroken, he walks on a leash right by my side. Perfect. I like to think in his head he’s composing an equally glowing letter to his dog friends about me: She’s friendly, she lets me get up on the sofa, she scratches my belly, she gave me a piece of a french fry that time.
Even so, we’re both still a little wary around each other. He doesn’t know yet that he can practically climb into my lap and it’ll be okay. I don’t know yet if he’ll let me scratch his haunches like Rosie used to love, the move that would make her practically attack me with her ass, imploring me to do it again. I’ve already cried six times today when Xander did something that reminded me of her. I hope he doesn’t think I’m crying because of him. I’d hate to give him a complex. A few times I’ve told him that it isn’t his fault, because that’s what I do now. In the absence of the human communication I used to get through my devices it’s become commonplace, almost necessary, to engage the pets in conversation. It’s a good thing I live alone.