Piko the dog (Peek-oh) loves it when I ride my pedal-bike.
Her eyes shine, sleek weasel-body wriggling with excitement, and she leaps about in joy. Her last home took her running with the bike, in a special harness connected to a sprung boom off the axle.
Grinding home up the crunching driveway, she waltzes over and pop-pops her head up into my palm. She is hoping. Hoping in the patient way only dogs, distant lovers, and the oppressed can hope.
With every wriggle she is telling me, “I’m really glad you had a nice ride Ben, but next time maybe take me too, won’t you please? I surely would love that, and I’ll be very good, if I may go running swiftly beside your bicycle.”
Oh Piko! Every time you break my heart! How can I show you I am just temporary, an unequipped pack-animal, when faced with your eternal hope?
Even by dogsonification: I can’t.
So instead I tell her she is good. I massage her brow, rub her chest, thump her flank reassuringly. I want desperately for her to feel the joy of a bike-run, to keep that hope alive, because the memory is her heart’s treasure.
23 February 2025, a dog nose.
