…. I love my city, born and bred.
A conversation once overheard in St. Louis, Missouri: two Americans asked two Brits on the 4th of July if the British celebrate the 4th of July. And the Brits responded, dryly, as only Brits can: “Um, no, because we don’t celebrate treason…..”
We celebrate treason here in Massachusetts. Tea in the Harbor, etcetera. Fireworks so year-round they’re nonsensical. Celebrating what? Reverberating trauma. Signs posted by the City read: “Hey Boston! Be a good neighbor! Don’t cause trauma. Don’t cause stress. Don’t shoot off fireworks.” So of course everyone shoots off fireworks. In July as in January. Unknowable most of the time what’s gunshots, what’s firecrackers. Bombs. Cop-knocks on the front door that turn out to be the USPS man telling you he’s not leaving your package on the motherfucking porch, so help him God, he will hand it to you, so help him God, he will not leave that motherfucker on the motherfucking porch.
When I rode in the back of the BPD cruiser with my dog 15 months ago the cop had an Irish accent. Not Irish-American. Not like from Southie. Irish-Irish. I found myself wondering if the Boston Police have some kind of cop exchange program. Like was there a Boston cop in Ireland right now? My dog and I were soaking wet from the rain and the Irish cop wanted to take me Downtown to make “a statement,” but I didn’t want to leave my dog. My dog was wearing my red Alpha Industries bomber jacket, buttoned around her chest. “Downtown is no place for a dog,” he told me. In the end I had to leave her.
(She’s still very much alive. She’s still teaching English. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.)
My dog is a good dog. A sturdy dog.
My dog is the Webb telescope of the olfactory, muzzle to the ground, at all times delivering up scent landscapes humans can only tangentially grasp: bouquets at the very edges of perception.
When I returned home after making “a statement,” everybody was looking at me like a clinician.
Everybody was looking at me like a clinician. And the dog, in her housedress, demanded nothing.
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© 2023 | Valéria M. Souza a.k.a. “Ghostwriter” | All Rights Reserved
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