dog charades

(cw for animal fighting, brief mention of blood) she lies and thinks and hopes to become a puddle of sleep. hopes absolve with panic. sharp, quick panic.     she has never been more awake. the curtains let in too much light -- not moonlight, not streetlight, but some sourceless bright pain. maybe the fireflies unionized, she thinks. her head goes blank. it is tired.     the ceiling has nothing to offer, but a twin-bladed fan. it spins without permission.     of course, the dogs start fighting. it begins as it always does, the younger leaps up and begins to test the older. their shadows slowly rise on the wall she faces. the younger pokes and bites. the older huffs and shifts in his bed. so, the younger barks.     now she sits up, a world across from them. she wasn’t sleeping anyway. why should anyone? the younger rodent slides up and down the wall, hopping on hind legs. the corners of the carpet are scuffed against the skirting.     the older dog stands on all four. he is given no opportunity to stretch. the younger nips and jabs. from the wall, it’s a pay-per-view in charades.     she thinks about the carpet, the room, the value of everything within it. each individual thing seems worthless. under the unwanted light, she sees nothing in the room worthy of being there. sleep thought the same of her.     she thinks about selling everything. a life limited to one room. the dogs lock jaws. everything she is sits in boxes. the fan breaks nothing.     the younger dog yaps an abusive howl. the pup is too young to mature, but old enough to teethe. sharp, fresh teeth pulsing through the gum. the water in the bowl goes pink, while the gums go red. it’s no surprise she couldn’t sleep. the older dog slumps around the room. he knows this impatience. he only wants to sleep.     she reaches for her flask and thinks that water will bring her peace. she thinks about the dogs teeth. the nipping only grew sharper. the older dog                                                                                     retaliated, a messy attack. the pup howls. a gliding bark. silence as the room sits still in its shock. the fan almost stopped spinning. the carpet drowns the noise, but not enough for downstairs to wake up and have words to say in later, hap-hazard meetings. the carpet is an ugly pit.

    she wishes the walls were carpeted. better heating, for a start.

    she forgoes bed, an excuse for a place of rest. she stands, bare-legged, and lifts the pup from the older. he looks up at her with worry, soon siding with relief. she finds the floor beside the bed. the pup in her arms, her heart beating rapidly, finds so much to look at. apparently, there was much to fuss about. she lies down on the carpeted floor, a rag of dust and skin and unsweepable hair. and dog. she lies on her side, and keeps the pup in her arm. she hushes the bitch,

‘get your rest.
you soft, sorry thing,
get some sleep
please, please,’