My Dog is Not a Dog

My dog is a deer.

We finally get to the grass and she begins to lope. After three bounds she leaps. I wracked my brains trying to figure out why she would do that. It's not stretching. It's not instinct. The only reason I can think of is that it's fun.

My dog is a cat.

She stretches in the sun, yawning. Then she climbs around me on the couch and curls up next to my leg. I swear I can hear her purring.

My dog is a lizard.

When she thinks she's done something wrong, down she falls, two front legs crawling, belly to the ground, slithering forward. Trying to camouflage herself.

My dog is a mouse.

If a cat turns its back, my dog chases it. If a cat turns and faces her, even if it's just a kitten, she runs away, barking. It's like the children's game: red light green light, where the children run forward only when the caller's back is turned.

My dog is a wolf.

She circles, she pants. She sniffs, she crouches. She tests, she eyes guardedly. She stalks, she edges. She leaps, she clutches. She throttles, she dismembers. And her prey, a discarded tissue, lies dead at her feet, never to move again.

Yehuda