There is a Dog

Tom Laplaige

There is a dog in the kitchen. I don’t have a dog. I’m not talking about my kitchen. There is a dog in the kitchen of your mind. This dog’s breed is not important now. What’s important is: why is the dog cooking? That is not a rhetorical question. I’m asking you to poke your head around the corner, confirm that there is indeed a dog cooking, and tell me ​why​. I know what the dog is cooking, already. I can smell what the dog in your kitchen is cooking. I have already eaten. It is not because I doubt the dog’s culinary prowess that I politely refuse a plate. You are going to offer me a plate. I’m just skipping ahead. Through the smoke and steam. The dull knives. The countertop, sticky with mystery. The digital clock on the microwave that always says noon. Or midnight. Is it of any difference to the dog? No! Damn you. There is not enough time for all of this chatter. When you are ready with an answer, really ready (you’ll know), please place your toothbrush in the garden under the arbor that climbs with violet tendrils that you now realize is there outside your window. It has always been outside your window. Go ahead and look. Ignore the slide for now. Focus on the arbor. Yes, everyone gets to go down the slide. And everyone says ​wheeeeeee.​ Your world is expanding. Don’t forget, there is a dog in your kitchen.

Tom Laplaige is not the dog in your kitchen.