He was SO cute and tiny and fragile. And I could see that he was hurt, but he was so supplicating. He licked my face and waggled his tail and errupted in delighted 'yurps' to be in my arms, but there was something distinctly wrong with him. So I rescued him, and we went to see the doctor. After the x-rays, the doctor told me that someone had performed an operation on this wee innocent fellow and had inserted an hand grenade into his body, "See there, what you thought was a wound is just a scar healing from the surgery. And his bulging tummy, that's not malnutrition although he could use a good meal or two."
And so it was, I stood there already loving this diminutive little puppy who just wanted to be my onliest and bestest buddy, trusting that I would love him and hug him and call him "George". The awful duality of his nature completely obscured to him but now boldly and awfully revealed to me. The doctor assured me that the grenade could go off at anytime, who knew when that pin would work itself free.
I took him anyway, but my love was tainted, fearful, watchful and frantically nervous.
That was the dream I had last night - I think it was the seminal truth of my just ended, but lingering, most recent relationship.
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