Chubs
by Matt Mitchell
beginning with a line from a Silver Jews song
The year used to end in the next room, but then it just softly murmured at your feet until you gave it food. And then it still didn’t go away. And now I can’t see where it went at all. Ted Williams cryogenically froze his head, just in case, on the off chance somatic cell cloning progresses farther than goats. Sometimes I dream I was the bicycle horn player on a Beach Boys record and nothing else. Sometimes I wish I could have stolen god’s organs and given them to Chubs. Instead I cry Sarah McLachlan commercial donations and milkbone bite percussion in the shower. He came from Oklahoma and rode on a plane before he learned to bark. He put his head on my leg before anyone else’s. Moved glaciers with his curious eyes and conquered stars after getting a good ear scratch. I don't go into the backyard much anymore. I wish I hadn’t complained about the smell of his food like that. I wish I could be the UPS driver and relive that big ferocious Chubs Bull Mitchell bark. Group chat asked us to define our grief last week, so maybe this is an omen for my answerless ghosting. It's hard to believe there is an entire world waiting on the other side of a devastating phone call. Did you know there are dog sculptures in cemeteries that grow no moss b/c people pet their stone heads when they pass by? Twitter told me that, so it must be true. I come home to see Chubs. To get a good look at him. To see all of his fur grayed but still growing. His cracked lighthouse body smaller and sagging birthday mouth tighter. I lay with him on the floor, nuzzling my face up with his like I always used to. If I’d been the bicycle horn player on Pet Sounds I could’ve made enough money to freeze you, Bubby, I think. For so long I didn’t have anyone else to love but you, I say. The next month I drive 3 hours home again, expecting to see his head propped up on a couch cushion, waiting patiently for me by the cold window. I can’t wait to tell him about my book going to the printer, like we’d always dreamed about. From the driveway, I Slim Whitman-call his name to no answer, expecting a bark to echo so dear, fearing he has turned to moss b/c I was too late. I pick up the last remaining hairs left on his spot of the couch and put them on ice, just in case.
Matt Mitchell is a gluten-free, heartbroken, intersex writer living in Columbus, Ohio. He is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection, The Neon Hollywood Cowboy (Big Lucks, 2021). Find him on Twitter @matt_mitchell48.