Tweak: “What’s wrong with your dog?”

Me: “It’s May. You know what that means.”

Tweak: “We’re all going to get a new ‘Uncle’?”

Me: “Thunderstorms.”

Bowie-dog is breathing like a freight train on the floor next to my bed.

Tweak: “It’s unfortunate your dog lacks thumbs. Amtrak could use a new engineer.”

Me: “Too soon, Tweak.”

Tweak climbs onto my chest. Not afraid, superior.

Tweak: “It’s 1:00 in the morning. Shouldn’t we be sleeping?”

Me: “I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Tweak: “I know a guy.”

Bowie-dog lies longways and upright, not on her side. Head up, face down, barreling into a panic tunnel. Except that she never moves forward. She has wedged herself into a slender strip of floor between my bed and the wall.

Me: “Can you make it look like an accident?”

Tweak: “I can make it look like a meteor hit your windshield.”

Bowie-dog’s breath engine pumps in and out like a fur bellows from Hell. She is panting so hard and fast that the rug underneath her is soaked from hot fear.

Tweak: “I bet she’s doing 106.”

I cover my eyes with one arm. The rain pours.

Tweak: “That curve is only built for 55.”

Lightning flashes, the thunder cracks, Bowie-dog lurches and crashes headfirst into the nightstand.

Tweak: “Maybe you should check her black box.”

I roll over.

Me: “Uncle.”

 

18 May 2015 — “Tolerating Tweak”