The Spar

Charlie, a Jack Russell terrier, hides from Miles in a corner of the sunroom under a bench designed in old snowboards. Miles shows off his panther-talons tearing so recklessly into the indoor/outdoor carpet that he pulls up shrapnel shreds. I know the taste of his claws for they drink of my blood, too. Charlie recalls the feel of one razor as she swipes her paw along an old injury stretching the length of a tawny ear. Miles swaggers nearer to his former pal. He has apologized dozens of times, even bringing home particles of unknown species for gifts. Charlie cannot forget the indiscretion as a nearly inaudible snarl forms from her oddly frozen grimace.
I coo at both while Miles circles in and around canine legs, rubbing jowls along canine ribs. He always finishes this dance with Triomphe, a trick ploy of jumping atop poor Charlie. As I reprimand, he attacks my bare ankles, claws retracted. A cat slipper swirling devilishly close to skin.
If dogs could sigh, Charlie would, creeping as if invisible across the red Saltillo tiles, finding refuge on my lotus position legs.
I pray for peace in this corner of the porch, mindful that the sense memory of scars linger even in my own heart.

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