Spike

Meet Spike, the Pit Bull who has adopted me. 
No, he’s not the slavering, teeth-baring beast that the media loves to portray. I guess I
love dogs too much to buy into that.

He is the quintessential Pit: Silent, watchful and deadly. Single-minded in his role in my new life, to keep me in line, subdued and frankly, in constant fear.
Most mornings now, I come awake to his teeth locked into the right side of my head, silently clamping down with that grim single-mindedness that is the hallmark of his breed.
When he releases me finally and I sit up clutching at my head, he steps back in the darkness, watching silently. Waiting for me to make the next movement, speak too loud, turn my head. It seems that any of those things have the potential of a strike command. And he pads around me through my day. He’s with me in the shower, and of course, he hates me talking too loud… and dare I sing – other than in a soft little murmur?  Nope.

And then he will disappear sometime through the morning. And I’m free to get back to normal. Or at least so I think, till I forget and let myself go with a loud laugh or start horsing around with Jazzy (who is fully aware of Spike, now) and suddenly I’ll hear that throaty growl somewhere in my head, a smattering of pinpricks behind my eye, trickling down to my lips as Spike reappears, those blank dispassionate eyes watchful as ever. Reminding me of my place. Leading me into the night, when his teeth reign.

Sigh. He is starting to feel quite real, you know?