I loved puppy kindergarten. I learned to follow Justin, at his heel, at the age of three months. Jada and Bing, my littermates, were easily distracted. As a result, Jada was traded to a poor Vietnamese boy in our neighborhood for a fairly high-quality set of skateboard trucks. Bing — I don’t know — judging from the way Justin and Greg behaved when I moaned at Bing’s empty bed, Bing may have drowned in the neighbor’s open septic tank, two houses down. I remember the pumper truck, then the commotion one afternoon. I can add two and two.

“Tango, lie down.” For Christ’s sake, Justin, my elbows and my hocks are flat on the floor. I can’t lie any more down than I am. Oh, I get it, he’s — “Roll over, Tango!” — busy impressing Marcelline. “Sit.” I do all that he commands of me with a look of absolute devotion. He turns his back and snaps his fingers — of course, he’s watching me in the tall mirror on the rec room wall. I know the game. I am to do anything that enters my long, narrow skull, as long as it is clearly definable and fairly complex. I stand on my hind legs and rotate once left, once right, then lie down and cover both eyes. Justin says, “Tango spun left, then right, and now he’s acting like he’s ashamed of himself.” Marcelline gasps. She’s a sophomore, two years younger than Justin. A bit over-made up, taller than he, and pinched into red spandex in all the right places. She is hot hot hot. Even I’m interested — but then, I just reached puberty.

I’m fine with him getting in her pants, but I need to be treated well, too. Normally, after a display of this complexity, I am well rewarded — a Quiznos thinly sliced beef sub, which Justin chops up and feeds to me a quarter at a time. But after many long panting breaths on the part of all three of us, I am left to myself. I get the sense that he’s gone to the kitchen, but I never hear the fridge open and shut. So there I am, on the yellow oval shag rug, saliva pooling at my paws. Eventually, I step to the door of his father’s den, but it is latched shut. I hear panting and lip smacking. That sets me to salivating more. But I am not aware of it at the moment — that comes later when Justin rubs my nose in the wet. Drool is the one body fluid I cannot control. The tap is on and keeps running, apparently, because my movements around the house are recorded in what Marcelline called “slime.” Oh you gangly, miserable whore!

They must have done the deed. Or, I don’t know, maybe they were in there reading Shakespeare, because they were gone for a long time, as judged by my bladder. Finally, Justin comes out, smelling of heat, swamp, and ladycrotch. He looks at the drool-trail, and puts on a stern face. Oh, for god’s sake, you just got laid. Give me a break. He opens the back door: “Go do your thing, Tango.” I piss and come back. When am I going to get my sandwich? It turns out, never. Justin and Marcelline go in the kitchen and inhale the Quiznos.

Ten o’clock, I get the lecture. “The yellow rug is still damp. You got to get control of yourself.” Oh, you big hypocrite. Justin walks away and returns with a dish. It’s a heavy cereal bowl that looks like a dog dish. I don’t know what’s in it, but it smells pretty good. Oh, no, drool is building up, big time. I’m fucked. Then, just before it begins to drip, Justin sets the dish under my chops.

Fucking steak! Chunks of real, marbled steak. I never get steak, but I got it tonight. “I’m sorry, Tango. I was a real prick this afternoon.”

Thank you, Justin. I love you.