Dear Guardians of the Tetrapod,

The dog woke me up. Yet again. Placed his warm furry head on the edge of the bed and brushed his threadbare whiskers against my face, blowing me hot kisses with a breath that could knockout the dead. Smacking those loose-leaf lips of his in my left ear as though he were trying to form a vowel. A word perhaps. As if some profundity were listing at the end of that insanely long tongue of his. Perhaps it was the soft patter of rain on the skylight. The faintest hint of thunder on the far side of the galaxy. The rumble of the earth. Maybe it was night terrors. The barometric pressure. Visions of God. The sucking sound a tick makes when it syphons your blood. Maybe he needed me to turn the TV on. Or maybe he just had the trots from too much spicy Pad Thai the night before—Which he snarfed off the counter without my permission, I’ll have you know. Other than that, I haven’t a clue as to what he’s thinking or what may’ve triggered this latest episode. Knotted wood? An expanding joist? A band of coyotes warming up for the nightly canticle? 

Hell if I know.

So I patted his warm fuzzy head and turned my back. Good parenting skills 101. And my stricken friend thundered back beneath the bed. Little brother’s lower bunk. Teeth all achatter. Shaking like a leaf. His pressing concerns unresolved.

The Stupid Biped

Excerpt from:

To Whom It May Concern / Letters to the Editor

©2024 Steve Mitchell