I cannot look ahead.
There is no ahead. There is only now, and I can’t handle it. He is tearing up the carpet. Chomping the furniture. Treating my arm as a chew toy.
And he’s there. Always. Always having to be watched. Placated. Fed. I am tiptoeing around the edge of my own life. If I slip I will fall off.
Virtually the only place that’s out of his reach is the attic. He takes the corner off the coffee table that was my wife’s grandmother’s. Tears up the plush zebra from the first time we went to the zoo. He is eating our past, having finished the present. Three months old and he can reach the table. Four months, the kitchen surfaces. Nothing below waist height remains unlicked
Whack whack whack of his tail against the door frame as he comes into my study. The warmth of him as he hops onto the sofa and lays his head carefully on my thigh. How his eyes lock on yours as you enter the room. How he sits like an unassembled heap of random limbs. The most beautiful puppy. I cannot look ahead – I never want this to end.