The Goodbye Dog Diary Of Mindy Jones
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Mom let me out late this morning, so I shat by the front door where she can find it easy. It’s all dry little bum kibbles these days: Plop-plop-plop it went on the carpet (and not the parquet, where humans can skid and crack a back).
It’s going to get better, the dry shits. You can’t blame her. Mom is sad.
She left her job because she deserves better. I deserve better, she says, and cries. Sometimes, she forgets about me and sits at the kitchen table with her cup of tea doing phone things. Thumb all the way out, flicking, flicking. Sometimes, I have to ask her. Once, twice, three times. No more, really.
She sighs and lets me out and waits by the door and flicks and sighs. Just fucking shit already, she says. Why can’t I just be free of all this expectation? Flickety-flick.
Fuck. My. Life. She types with a hate face. All caps. Hashtag F dot M dot L dot, head exploding emoji, exclamark exclamark exclamark.
She seems happy then. Until she sees Dad by the door and is sad all over again. Why…
