proverbs 26:11

A cool day and a quiet house. Quiet as long as you don't listen. A ticking clock keeps time for the skipping record in the other room. The cadence would keep you up if you were trying to sleep. But no one is home. Just the dog. The house has a rhythm all its own. No one is there to hear it repeat itself. Accept the dog. But the dog has a dance of his own.

Time is the DJ and music is made. But the dog's dance is on the inside. Not like a junior high kid in the corner of the gym. More like Mexican that just doesn't sit right in your stomach. That is the kind of dance that was moving to the music of the house. The kibbles and bits were having a house party and the cops were just about to kick everyone out.

From the other room you can't tell what is happening to the inside of the dog. But it usually goes like this...the mouth begins to drip with the preparatory salivation. The dog rises to his four legs and stands at attention. Licking and slopping, his tongue tries to catch the dripping slobber. Then in perfect syncopation with the skipping record, convulsions overwhelm his lower torso. He then gears up for the impending conglomeration of foamy stomach acids with the one part kibble and two part bits. As his stomach muscles involuntarily and repetitiously clench together, his neck elongates to make room in his widening throat. The internal gastrointestinal dance now has outward expression in this awkward cleansing ritual. The convulsions reach their climax as the jaw opens and the semi-digested, feed-grade beef and chicken by-product flows out onto the kitchen floor.

As the vomit collects in a partially liquefied pool, the last pieces of expulsion hang on snot-like strings from the corners of the dog's mouth. The dog's tongue separates these cling-ons and he licks his lips as if he has just finished a slab of prime rib. Not feeling so great at this point, the dog hangs his head, droops his ears and waddles to the carpeted floor of the living room. The small puddle of vomit slowly spreads to the edge of the kitchen table and then stops. If one were to watch the dog closely at this point, it would seem that his eyes were apologetically following the movement of this watery pile. But that is not actually the case.

The hunter is still hunting and the prey is not yet dead. Maybe it’s the hypnotizing rhythms of the house. Or maybe it’s the instinct deep within. Whatever the motivation, the action is the same. The dog rises again to reclaim what is his. He tip-toes over to the kitchen and once again stares down his former food. It can't be the smell that stirs his hunger. It certainly isn't the visual appeal. Maybe he isn't hungry at all. But something from within that pile of puke calls out to him. How can he longingly gaze at the oozing mush? It’s as if what once dwelt in his body was his. He possessed it and he wants it back regardless of its condition. So he does again what got him there in the first place.

The dog lowers his head, then his snout, and finally his tongue to the floor. What would cause the rest of us to lose our lunch brings empty satisfaction for the dog. Rooting and scooping the pulpy mound, he doesn't leave any evidence of the crime. Even the foamy, liquid side dish doesn't escape his attention. Return he must and return he did to do the unthinkable. Only the second act could upstage the first in its vulgarity. And the clock still ticks and the record keeps skipping.