Fiction: My second favorite

by Ralph Pennel, Beckett’s Martyr • August 21, 2005 • He’s not like my first. He is different. One way he is different is in the way he sounds. I hear his voice in the yard or when he is on the phone. I watch him when he speaks, uncertain why it is so different than my first favorite. And it’s not just the sound of his voice, but the way he uses it. He lifts it and lowers it in ways that are different but that I have become used to. These are home to me now.

Even now, though he is silent, sitting before the box of moving colors, I hear his voice. It has settled in my heart somewhere. I can listen to it in moments like these, when he is silent. We can sit this way for hours, he saying nothing, me listening to the echos of his voice.

Arts Orbit is a multisource blog about the local arts scene, featuring both original contributions by Daily Planet writers and entries reprinted from partner blogs and online publications.

Earlier today, we went outside. The yard is different. Bigger maybe. I haven’t yet decided what it is. It has been this way since the men came with their shovels and their truck. It is more and less of something all at the same time. He notices too. I can see it in the way he looks out into the alley, as if he is seeing farther now, more completely. His gaze looks fuller. He attaches a land line to my collar. It is difficult to run. I do not like this new thing that we do.

I do not know what his place in the pack is. He does not wait to be fed or given water. He does not sit and wait beside the door. He does not miss my first like I do when he is not here. It is as if he is his own pack, seperate from my first. But he does not ask that I follow him. But he is good to follow when my first is away.

When he speaks with my first, I want to know what they are saying. I listen and walk between them, asking to be told. They do not understand my needs. They will scratch my ears or pet my head, but they will not speak with me. The words they use then are different and I do not understand. Sometimes, I will ask them to let me know. Instead, they let me out into the yard. It is not what I want, but it is what I know. It is one of the things we share. It is familiar.

The other day, I caught a squirrel. I don’t know why. I like to chase them, but I never mean to catch them. This time, however, when I saw that I could, I did it. I just did it. When I had it in my mouth, I knew then that I must kill it. There was something deep inside me that I listened to. A voice that sounded like my second’s. My first made me stop. But the squirrel was dead. I felt the neck break in my mouth. My teeth are strong. I looked at my first who was angry. His voice sounded that way it does when I must go inside or sit in my cage. I lowered my tail. A thing I do when he uses this voice. My second uses it too and it makes me feel this way. He will not hit me, but this voice fills me with deep sadness. I thought he would understand. I felt my second would understand. I think I was angry because he has been gone. I missed his voice. I was trying to hear his voice in my heart. That’s when it happened. But I know he wouldn’t ask me to do this thing that makes my first angry. I know he wouldn’t.

I like to greet him at the door with a gift. Sometimes I bring him a pillow. Sometimes I bring him the toy with many bright colors. He knows I do this because I am glad he is home. Maybe that is why I killed the squirrel. Because he was not home and the urge to do this thing we share was growing in me and I was angry. Maybe that is why.

---

The other day, I caught a squirrel. I don’t know why. I like to chase them, but I never mean to catch them.

---

Last night, I dreamt we were dogs together. We ran as a pack. We hunted. We ran side by side, our noses low to the earth, absorbing the scent of soil and fur, fur and soil. We ran for miles, our feet trembling beneath us the way a dog’s feet will tremble when at the very edge of the thing they wish for most. When we finally cornered that which we were chasing, I found myself face to face with my second favorite. I didn’t think. I struck and took him down until his eyes closed and his body went still. And just when his eyse closed, I opened mine. The house was dark. My first’s feet jutted from beneath the covers. I licked my front paws. They were clean. I listened for the faint breath of my second in the other room. It came like the patter of rain. The night was calm

Something tells me, though, that my second will leave me. Something feels that way. I feel it when he looks that way he does out beyond the alley. It makes me anxious sometimes and I ask him to scratch my ears when he is busy. He says the word to me that hurts, that I wish I never knew. He says “no” and it fills me with unbearable grief. Why did my first teach me this word? Does he not know how sad it is? There can surely be no sadder word than “no.” Perhaps he taught me so that I will understand when my second is gone. Surely it will feel the same, but deeper, and longer. I will miss the way his voice feels. I will miss his hands on my head. I will miss the scents of him in my fur.

For now, I will let the sun warm my side. The heat is gone today. It is a good day. I wait for him to call my name. It is always this way. I am always waiting. It’s the thing we are. It is what I know. It is what is good.