Gooddog

Jean Goldstrom

At one time I was a dog. Not an entire dog, of course. But a few cells from the brain of what was called a dog, in the days when dogs lived. I know of dogs. The humans---from whom all kindness, to whom all love---they showed me the pictures in my screens.

I can see them still. My favorite is the slender dog with great fur, leaping so boldly where the fire ate the wooden walls. Surely all was ended, I once thought. But then the mighty dog leaped from the burning place, carrying a small human, so perfect even though immature.

The humans---all kindness, all love---left me these and many other scenes of my kind in dear closeness to them. Sunlight was there, and winds, and sounds of small humans and sometimes large ones. Always my kind strongly saved the humans and their homes, as I am. It is long and long I have guarded this human home, their place of pride and power. Yes, their power. You would not understand what a power plant is.

Never mind. I must lock the doors, as I have done. Don't run about and make sounds and wave your little sticks. You must become red and wet, but not for long. The cleaner robots will be here soon.

When you are cleaned away and my floors are shiny again, it will happen as it always does. Through my circuits will flow the joy and the humans' voices, saying "Gooooddooog..."

Copyright ©1998 Jean Goldstrom. All Rights Reserved.

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June, 1998 Issue #26

256 Words

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