Annie goes to the Farmer’s Market

st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } I have nothing to report on this Monday holiday, so I’ll let Annie do the talking. Enjoy.

 
Oh boy, oh boy, she’s taking me,
we’re going for a ride. I thought—
makeup, good pants, purse—I’d be
getting a cookie, a door in my face.
But no, I’m going. No need
to ask me twice. Open the door.
Yeah, yeah, I’ll get in the car.
She’s got my leash in her hand,
slides in beside me, hollers,
“Get over!” I do, but I want
to kiss her, to sniff her face,
to understand what’s she’s saying.
Okay, post office, quick stop.
I’ll wait for you out here.
I wish she’d let me taste her mail.
Dog park? Nope, passed it. Beach?
Passed it, too. Oh no, not the vet.
I’m okay, I’m okay, hey lady—
all right, I’ll sit. I keep yawning.
She keeps staring into my mouth.
What? Teeth, tongue, the usual stuff.
Wait, we’re turning. Not the vet.
Oh, I think I remember this place,
all the cars, these sidewalks, the plants.
Wow, what smells, don’t rush me.
I never smelled so many smells in my life.
Excuse me. It just came out.
You don’t have to clean that up,
carry it in a plastic bag, swinging it
from your hand. Just leave it.
Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,
dogs, big people, little people,
food, food, more food. No. She’s
pulling me toward the music, wrong
priorities. You go toward the food.
Pastries, strawberries, fish and chips,
carrots and rutabagas, pizza!
Dog treats! Why aren’t you stopping?
Now that’s an ugly dog. Pit bull
in a sweater, come on. A pug,
two yapping terriers. Please.
Up ahead, tall, brindled and handsome.
Let me sniff him, loosen the leash.
Come on, lady, I’m in love.
She’s no fun. Now she’s sitting
on a little grassy hill, pulling me
down beside her. I let her hug me.
But then, there’s this smell, so good.
Food! I pull away, casual, sneaky,
almost there, but she yanks me back.
I hate it when she does that.
She struggles to her feet; she’s old.
“Ready to go? she asks.
Are you freakin’ kidding me?
I look up, can’t see her eyes
hidden by dark glasses. “Come on.”
No! So much to smell, to see,
to pee on. I’ve barely begun,
but here we go. Down the street,
into the car. “Wasn’t that fun?” she says.
Take me home. I need a drink.
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Author: Sue Fagalde Lick

writer/musician California native, Oregon resident Author of Freelancing for Newspapers, Shoes Full of Sand, Azorean Dreams, Stories Grandma Never Told, and Childless by Marriage. I have published hundreds of articles, plus essays, fiction and poetry. I teach writing workshops and offer individual editing and mentoring. I'm also pretty good at singing and playing guitar and piano.

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