The Woman Afraid of Dogs

The Woman Afraid of Dogs

I envision her lying in her bed at night, shoulders sharp, clavicles screaming, and her eyes squeezed shut in anger at ambient starlight.
I see her sitting at the kitchen table minutes before sunrise, sitting like a right-angled twig, holding the corner of toast as if it were a dirty diaper.  Her boney fingertips tug at the crust in slow disgust, such a repulsive texture, she thinks.
As her whistling husband dances with the spatula, frying up bacon and eggs, percolating coffee, she sips her prune juice and dabs her perforated lips with a cloth napkin.
When her husband sets his steaming plate on the table she jumps up and announces, "It's time for my walk."
Her long-sleeved grey t-shirt hangs off her shoulders like a gunnysack as her long skeleton limbs swing through the autumn humidity.  
Nasty neighbors, she thinks, as she speeds away from dogs in the distant path.  She turns her head to hide her face with her swiveling baseball hat.  
She sees her only friend, fishing in the pond, the Great Blue Heron.  
Oh how she wishes she were his mate, standing on one long strong leg, poised in the perfect resemblance of grace, patiently waiting for the perfect fat frog or plump carp to enter the target beak range.  If only I were a bird.