I find myself scrubbing the shit out of the hallway carpet, literally. I’m on my hands and knees like one of those ‘happy domestics’ in old commercials–except I’m not at all happy. Actually, I’m quite bitter.
The stain is stubborn. My knees are sore. Finally, as brown fades to wilted yellow, I bow to the stain and accept it’s shadow as an ominous presence that will haunt me my entire life.
My dog stares at the mess he made, seemingly contented.
He has created his legacy.
And I wonder who owns who?