Tail Down

A case study in canine existentialism

Tail Down

A case study in canine existentialism

That Saturday morning all seemed normal. I got out of bed and stepped carefully around clumps of clothing, quiet when closing the bedroom door behind me as to not disturb Gyan. Natto, who had jumped off the bed and trailed behind me to the kitchen, did her usual morning bows. Two sourdough loaves had been rising overnight in the fridge, each nuzzled in its own Benetton, so I hoisted the cast iron pot into the oven rack and turned it on to 500 degrees. Despite the dough being wetter than I would have liked, all else seemed in place so I could not understand why I felt unease. I checked that no stove elements had been accidentally turned on, and walked around the apartment confirming no leaks, no strange smells, not so much as an empty toilet paper roll. It was not until I had scored the first loaf and unceremoniously dropped it into the sizzling pot that I got my answer: Natto’s tail was down.

Natto, my Shiba Inu, is a dog of distinct features. Her triangle ears are always at attention, satelliting around for information or the crinkling of an imported cheese wrapping. Her paws are deceptively dexterous, like those of a rat or a racoon, and her eyes are encased in a dark kohl liner, punctuating her haughty attitude. Out of all the parts that make up my dog, I think I love her tail the best. Independent of rain or shine, her tail remains a perfect, immovable curl that never betrays emotion, save for the occasional wiggle during especially exciting games of fetch. If she’s let’s say, lurking behind the couch, you’ll know, because the uppermost hairs of her curlicue will alert to her position. Once the reader forgives me for this last rather indulgent paragraph, they might then imagine the distress I felt that morning, when I found her tail unfurled.

At first, I thought it was a trick of the light. Perhaps a temporary hallucination brought on by the thrill of the brush with danger handling the scorching iron pot. But no, as I approached, her tail remained uncurled, giving the impression of a well-cared for coyote. I lowered myself next to her and patted her head, hoping the contact would reset the appendage. Nothing. I tried scratching her back, with similarly frustrating results. I reached over my head and grabbed a treat from the counter, though her tail remained uncoiled. We spent the remainder of the baking time on the kitchen floor, with me patting and poking and prodding her, trying to find an answer to the mystery.

It was not until the oven beeped, its shrill tone demanding that I check on the bread, that a hypothesis came to me. The oven was on. An active oven meant possible smoke, which meant certain fire alarm, Natto’s great nemesis, second only to fireworks. Surely, she was offended by my actions that morning. The second loaf would have to wait; I turned off the oven and opened the balcony door. Several moments passed, the tail was no closer to curling. I started to panic.

Was she in pain? Was she angry at me? Was something weighing on her psyche? Was her curlicue unfurling into a sickle in some type of Marxist protest?

The remainder of the day yielded no answers, nor did the following morning. For the next twenty-four hours, Gyan and I discussed little besides the dog’s tail. News of her condition reached India, Argentina, and Spain. I was left with no choice but a vet visit where, in exchange for a hefty bill, it was confirmed that nothing was wrong with her. The vet indulged my questions for a full five minutes and then suggested we leave the office before (and here he weighed his words carefully) Natto’s limited patience for the medical establishment won out.

There we were, sprawled on the sofa and no closer to an answer, Natto’s head resting on my shin, when my friend Pía buzzed up. Under the nebulous excuse to drop off some medialunas she made her way in and patted Natto, observing her.

“No, she’s not hurt,” she said, qualified to diagnose my feline dog through her status as a cat owner.

“Then what?”

“It’s an identity crisis. She’s processing she’s going to be a big sister,” she said, Natto accepting her pats as though love were a rare resource in the home.

I pondered Pía’s prognosis long after she left. Had the dog developed a complex because of my pregnancy? Now that I thought about it, my hair had also grown straighter with each passing week, causing me to try four different products in the hopes of obtaining my usual curly texture. I patted Natto’s tail and loosely held a lock of my hair to my eyes. A quick search taught me that most women’s hair goes back to normal a few years after the baby. Natto, true to form, processed her impasse in a matter of days.

Ailén Cruz — 997 Editing