mr sausage

i had other names for him besides hector. a woman on the beach heard me call him bubbles once. then mr sausage. she stopped to pat him, ‘so his name’s bubbles?’ she asked. no i said. awkwardly. it’s hector. then she asked about the mr sausage thing only i didn’t have an answer except he loves sausages. by that rationale i could also have called him mr bacon, mr pizza, mr sticky date pudding, mr ben & jerry’s new york fudge, mr t-bone steak, señor paella, herr chicken schnitzel, monsieur ratatouille. the only names i could never have called him were mr tahini, mr alfalfa sprout, mr cucumber crudite. i suspect dog owners who say, oh you should get another dog have yet to find themselves soaking in the too much garlic marinade of loss that seeps deep into the folds of the chicken tenderloins of their existence. then they bang on about how the joy a dog brings far outweighs the sadness once they’re gone. does it? i say, pulling my jumper out at the neck and staring down towards my heart that still houses the grief i thought would only be on a short term lease but is still there, with its three piece suite, its king size bed, its louis the XV dining table with eight matching chairs. it’s been three years. my heart is still fragile. getting another dog now would be like biting into a chocolate liqueur. the structure of the chocolate case cannot withstand the pressure of my bite. the entire thing collapses. sticky liqueur squirts from my mouth dribbles down onto the collar of my white silk shirt. i take the shirt to the dry cleaner. he has seen these stains before. he points to his arsenal of stain removing chemicals––one for sausages, one for pizza, one for unrelenting grief. he tells me he will do his best but he cannot promise anything.