My dachshund turns her head up and looks at me with her brown eyes rolled back as if in ecstasy. They are the eyes of a Rubens or a Carvaggio, the Baroque art movement alive in my lap, just begging for a tummy rub.
She’s not a normal dog. Sometimes I think she’s carries the residue of past lives. Before she came to live with me she may have been a showgirl in Vegas. I can imagine her in the feathered headdress, kicking her long human legs like a Rockette. Isn’t it ironic how stubby those legs are now?
When she was a woman she must have lived a hard life, falling in love left and right with men that she met in line at the DMV or at the bowling alley, always searching for someone to love her.
I like to think that she’s found us, the people to adore her. Maybe that’s why she stares at us so lovingly, so longingly.