Owner Surrender
Natalie Shapero
I was low. I told him he should give me his blessing
to die and he said ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ɪᴛ
ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴɪɴᴇᴛʏ Baby, don’t
tease. Baby, how can you
be sure I’m not ninety now? Have you considered
I might be like one of those dogs where the shelter plays
fast and loose with the age? You think
you’ve got a two-year-old, but he’s seven.
You think you’re dealing with a pup, but she’s fifteen.
Baby, would you rather have a runaway or one
that got tested out and then returned?
ᴏᴡɴᴇʀ sᴜʀʀᴇɴᴅᴇʀ, they call it. Even then, you can’t
be sure; you can only try—assess
the incisor, examine the eye, measure
the build-up, track the milky haze—but the fact
is that, with a typical dog, there is no way to precisely
clock the age. You just have to wait, unknowing,
for some next phase. Baby, can you tell
if I’m different? Am I changing? Will I change?