At Least They're Committed

The hose snakes across the yard, looping once or twice not moving, just pouring. Raul, the ‘Hospice Worker’ as Rachel called him for his penchant for putting other creatures out of their misery, is snapping at the water flow, his shark-like jaws and razor teeth opening and closing in rhythm, the clash of his incisors echoing against the fence line. Mina runs around him, sloshes in the dirt and mud then back to me, using my thigh as a spring-board in a swimmer’s relay to bounce back toward the yard, toward Raul, who now believes that the water is an attack mechanism and has started digging, digging, digging at the dirt, pausing to shove his muzzle into the mud hole and bite at what’s not there. Shadow sits with me, his ears down, straight out, no longer like a dog but more a defensive devil’s horns. Soon, since I’ve moved the hose four or five times and Raul has followed it and attacked it with the same obsessive force, his husky ears jut out horizontal as well. Weary.  I’m trying to read, but the dogs  — even Beulah plays a role standing off sides but wagging her tail minus fear — are much too compelling. “Did you kill it Raul?” I ask him and his tail sways just a little. He’s tired, I turn off the water and go inside.