It would never occur to me to feed animal legs to my dog. And yet Marc cannot stop giving, giving, giving. New items for Salvy. And more. And yet more.
Marc started with "bully sticks," which are tiny, foul-smelling rods--made of some weird animal part--and yet he felt that they disappeared too quickly. This is what he said, at least. I actually think the thrill of being more and more beneficent--the thrill of giving bigger and better treats--is what really inspired Marc to move on from bully sticks. At times, it seems my husband is offering whole animal carcasses to our dog.
Our house has started to resemble a boneyard; it makes me think of the wasteland that the three hyenas visit in "The Lion King." Unidentified bones are littered through the living room, through the bathroom, on high ledges, in my marital bed. When I found a femur next to my pillow, I recalled the decapitated horse in the first installment of "The Godfather."
Salvy does really like these carcasses. He grinds them to dust. Sometimes, the parts get very small, and at certain early-morning hours, they seem indistinguishable from turds. I stare and stare--half-asleep--and I ask myself, "Is that something I need to clean up?" And then, with relief, I understand that I'm just looking at the tiny skull of a rodent, or maybe some part of a former livestock specimen.
When Salvy is especially agitated, or in need of "play," he thrusts a piece of animal at me. There is sometimes grizzle dripping from the bone. Salvy will drop the item at my feet and stare up at me, happily: He understands this is a bold proposition, but he is hanging onto hope.
At PetCo, as my husband collects new trinkets, I stare at the color-enhanced fish. I speak with the gerbils; heads turn. I note the shameless "Avengers" marketing, as if Salvy really needs to be chewing on a plush "Thor," or a "Black Widow."
I've lived one year in New Jersey, and sometimes I recall my failure to pick up poop in the backyard, and I wonder what my first brave trek through the manure fields might entail. I wonder what--at last--will spur me on. Guests? A strange smell wafting up from the grass?
This is my new suburban life.
Marc started with "bully sticks," which are tiny, foul-smelling rods--made of some weird animal part--and yet he felt that they disappeared too quickly. This is what he said, at least. I actually think the thrill of being more and more beneficent--the thrill of giving bigger and better treats--is what really inspired Marc to move on from bully sticks. At times, it seems my husband is offering whole animal carcasses to our dog.
Our house has started to resemble a boneyard; it makes me think of the wasteland that the three hyenas visit in "The Lion King." Unidentified bones are littered through the living room, through the bathroom, on high ledges, in my marital bed. When I found a femur next to my pillow, I recalled the decapitated horse in the first installment of "The Godfather."
Salvy does really like these carcasses. He grinds them to dust. Sometimes, the parts get very small, and at certain early-morning hours, they seem indistinguishable from turds. I stare and stare--half-asleep--and I ask myself, "Is that something I need to clean up?" And then, with relief, I understand that I'm just looking at the tiny skull of a rodent, or maybe some part of a former livestock specimen.
When Salvy is especially agitated, or in need of "play," he thrusts a piece of animal at me. There is sometimes grizzle dripping from the bone. Salvy will drop the item at my feet and stare up at me, happily: He understands this is a bold proposition, but he is hanging onto hope.
At PetCo, as my husband collects new trinkets, I stare at the color-enhanced fish. I speak with the gerbils; heads turn. I note the shameless "Avengers" marketing, as if Salvy really needs to be chewing on a plush "Thor," or a "Black Widow."
I've lived one year in New Jersey, and sometimes I recall my failure to pick up poop in the backyard, and I wonder what my first brave trek through the manure fields might entail. I wonder what--at last--will spur me on. Guests? A strange smell wafting up from the grass?
This is my new suburban life.
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