I do not love my dog.
She is weak-limbed, arthritic, and has a mucus-blue eye. She is disagreeable. She hates riding in the car. She won’t chase a stick. She ignores Frisbees and tennis balls and other stock attempts at human-canine interaction. She eats grass. Even slimy grass. Which she then pukes. In front of everyone else in the park. As if the pedigree-brand dog food I buy is beneath her. As if gravy bones give her a pain.
I come home from work to a new level of odour. She has made a mess and left it. In the guest room. On the freshly steam-cleaned carpet.
I press my lips and feel the familiar surge of resistance that comes when action seems called for. What to do?