Divinity

A dog story / The Dead Mule of Southern Literature

The dogs still catch me by surprise.

I came across the dog sweaters thinking perhaps I could somehow fashion some sort of temporary warm wear for our all but naked cat Bob, sporting a fresh lion cut.

Bob is a black and white tuxedo Maine Coon mix. He typically looks quite spiffy in his fur formal wear, until the day he doesn’t. He appears depressed, his futile attempts at self-grooming defeated.

Long-haired cats eventually require a professional. Mats are a tangle best left for those schooled in the Art of the Unknot.

He emerged grooming ready for summer. A mane, a puff at the tip of his tail and what looked like two pair of kitty UGGS. The rest of him sleek.

Unfortunately for Bob, the temperature outside had dropped faster than a frozen iguana.

To know me is to know my heart is tender. I have safeguards in place, in this case, I had hidden the pup sweaters beneath my rarely worn winter gear, stored in a plastic bin shoved under the bed ten months of the year. Out of sight, out of mind.

Of course, the sweaters - tee shirts really, Florida never gets cold, right - were three Bobs too large and my heart, a puddle.

“Divinity” is told from the point of view of a dog. A dog that is true. Loyal. Devoted. Brave. The story was written from a prompt, a grainy vintage photo. Women standing in a wagon, like Professor Marvel’s in the Wizard of Oz. My mind’s eye conjured a dog beneath the wagon.

For every dog I’ve loved, I dedicate this story.

Divinity was published online by The Dead Mule of Southern Literature, 2/1/2020 and featured on the Dead Mule podcast Brain Fertilizer Christmas in July, read by Virginia Lee, 7/16/2020.

Read the story here.

Listen to the Divinity podcast here and also, listen for Valerie’s David Lynch mention.

Thank you, editor Valerie MacEwan and podcast host, Valerie Lee.

For Bob, we bought a cool velcro parka (small dog size) with a secret pocket for his tiny cell phone.

Stay warm out there.

“I like to remember things my own way. How I remembered them, not necessarily the way they happened.”

-David Lynch, Lost Highway, 1997 (“Fred Madison”)