She is a Dog
It always begins with animorphizing an object. For example he will say:
She is a dog
Leaving her roadside is an easy determination for him because she never had a collar. What this translates to is: he never added her contact to his phone, therefore the dog never had a name and to ghost, therefore, leave a helpless slobbering she-dog on read, becomes an ordinary measure. Now, truth be told, we don’t know if he actually added her number to his phone or not, what we know is that this is a metaphor for how unimportant the dog was at the end of this situationship.
She, the dog, trances, otherwise known as ghost-walks, blending through the large and wet shadows the moon casts through the forest she bemoans. This can translate to a woman hurdled over a meditation pillow full of buckwheat hulls, now wet with her sobbing. Add Door-dashed lunch and dinner, a room crowded by the disarray of desolation and we have a dog. She is of the 3 month dating period ending abruptly when the man of her choice chooses a thinner, cis, heterosexual domesticated woman. A dog can’t comprehend that this is not about her quadruped disposition, but about a temporary owner who was always looking for a dog he could fuck and impregnate. It wasn’t her loud rhythmic slurping or lapping sounds that discounted her, it was simple fact that she was, indeed, a good girl who fetched, who snuggled against his shin when asked, who slurped the treat out of his hand when he whipped it out.
Dog tries to makes sense of the south-facing slope of mount Hollywood situated in the eastern Santa Monica mountains of Los Angeles, but her wild instincts are no longer running with the wolves. There is no dog stranded in LA, there is an only a woman in Chicago beside her objectified body on the fifth floor of a suburban apartment complex in a bed that is not her own. She howls as the north side window but no pack comes to find her. She must make of her heartbreak, in the city of Chicago she has chosen to be her new home, what any dog would—burry the bone and hope to find it again.
She who is a dog spends weeks merged into the sticky darkness of the forest, looking straight ahead, considering the headlights a parting gift, a statement of merit, a martyrdom for all transexuals, a conviction that makes her worthy of some sympathy, somewhere, from some stranger, but she decides on a different course. Regained in her wildness she dreamwalks straight into the man’s apartment. He is in his CPD regalia (which he revealed on the 4th date because he knew she’d beat his ass), arm over his hand sculpted wife, while they overlook the Cubs stadium. Two blonde sons run out from his room into nothingness. No one knows he loves sucking dog cock until I bark. She is a dog and he is a little bitch.
