Gods

He looks up at me with watery, eager eyes after patting my dog. His father calls, “Come on, we have to go in now.” There’s an edge to it, but it’s as if the boy doesn’t hear him. “Do you know what the difference is between dogs and cats?”, the boy asks me. I solemnly shake my head but glance over at his father, who is unlocking the door of their apartment while watching the boy sternly. The lines of our eyes now form a triangle. The boy doesn’t wait for me to offer the formulaic ask: “So, what is the difference between dogs and cats?”. He gushes, words tumbling, “The dog thinks the human pats and feeds it, the dogs thinks, it thinks it’s owner is a god”. His brow is furrowed, he’s trying to find the next words, to get them right.

He looks up at me with watery, eager eyes after patting my dog.
His father calls, “Come on, we have to go in now.” There’s an edge to it, but it’s as if the boy doesn’t hear him.
“Do you know what the difference is between dogs and cats?”, the boy asks me. I solemnly shake my head but glance over at his father, who is unlocking the door of their apartment while watching the boy sternly. The lines of our eyes now form a triangle.
The boy doesn’t wait for me to offer the formulaic ask: “So, what is the difference between dogs and cats?”. He gushes, words tumbling, “The dog thinks the human pats and feeds it, the dogs thinks, it thinks it’s owner is a god”. His brow is furrowed, he’s trying to find the next words, to get them right.
“Don’t bother the lady, we need to go.” Sharper now.
“And, and, cats think, they think that the human takes care of them because they, they are a god!”
I am sure that the boy doesn’t understand the joke, he has picked it up somewhere. Maybe school. Is he already school-aged? Must be. Seven maybe. He smiles widely, wiggling, and glances furtively back at his father.
The father directs a tight smile at me.

Gods

I hope that the boy doesn’t notice the lag before I start to laugh.
“And, and, did you know that dog is god backwards?”
The father is louder now: "I said come.”
We’ve never spoken before, not more than a nod and hello as we pass in the stairwell or hallway, coming home, going out, living our lives through impenetrable, thin walls.
I do hear them though. The father, the son, the mother. I’ve never actually seen her.
I sometimes turn my music or the TV up.
My dog stares at the wall if the pitch of a scream is high or a whimper is sustained. He barks sometimes when there is a sudden crash of something against the wall, our wall.
“That was a good joke, thank you,” I say as gently as I can, resisting the impulse to stroke his head.

“Don’t bother the lady, we need to go.” Sharper now. “And, and, cats think, they think that the human takes care of them because they, they are a god!” I am sure that the boy doesn’t understand the joke, he has picked it up somewhere. Maybe school. Is he already school-aged? Must be. Seven maybe. He smiles widely, wiggling, and glances furtively back at his father. The father directs a tight smile at me. I hope that the boy doesn’t notice the lag before I start to laugh. “And, and, did you know that dog is god backwards?” The father is louder now: "I said come.” We’ve never spoken before, not more than a nod and hello as we pass in the stairwell or hallway, coming home, going out, living our lives through impenetrable, thin walls. I do hear them though. The father, the son, the mother. I’ve never actually seen her. I sometimes turn my music or the TV up. My dog stares at the wall if the pitch of a scream is high or a whimper is sustained. He barks sometimes when there is a sudden crash of something against the wall, our wall. “That was a good joke, thank you,” I say as gently as I can, resisting the impulse to stroke his head.