The new doggy is either emulating society or mocking it.
He wakes me, expectedly so. He devours his breakfast kibble, though I’ll assume his newness cannot fathom lest assume another meal. He devours everything. I walk him, wary of his approach the other doggies. Too much ass-smelling and randomness, a protracted devouring in itself, in its early phases. Today, he shits as a little old lady smells flowers. She says “So cute” as I bend to scoop it up. Of course, he wags his tail. The look on his face condemns us all.
His actually devouring everything is simply just a matter of time. As we walk through the door (he’s all but pissed on his very own doggy door), I suspect he’ll commandeer my beer and claim it as his own. He’ll bring himself the paper and suggest our new socialism’s going just fine before he desecrates my shoes, the new pillows on the sofa, my friends, my girl, and my job. At the puppy mill they used the word Labradoodle, but if there’s a new breed called Golden Mockingdoggy, he’s it.
Meanwhile, per the Zen-like equilibrium guarding the household, the old blue-eyed Siamese has new reasons to please. To the backs of chairs and the top of the sofa, she’s taken to new heights. She’s scaled the lofty bookcases, grand peaks of the kitchen cupboards. As her nails grow I’ll pretend to not hear the rhythmic clicking of her claws; let slide her waiting and watching, her silently scouting every aspect of his brilliant devouring. For this old dog can mock reality, too.