Before Frank
Before Frank there was Muchka. Muchka was a lovely, blond, indigo-eyed poem of a child, whose smile dazzled like a white orchid. Speech came quickly to him, and by age three he could tell me the names of all the teas lining the kitchen shelf. But he grew cruel when brother Izzy joined our family, tormenting the newborn with what he called his devil faces–though when I thought of the seventeen hours of labor Izzy put me through, this sometimes pleased me. Still, Muchka’s bullying presented a problem.
Like his brother, Izzy disliked welcoming a new member into the family. When he was eighteen months, we caught him peering into the microwave window at Frank. Izzy was still in the babbling stage, and only gaped at us when we tried to explain why sticking Frank in the microwave–even with the power off–was wrong. With his lustrous black hair and eyes like moonlit water, Izzy played on our sympathies with even greater cunning than Muchka. But we couldn’t allow him to subject Frank to yet more morbidly curious experiments–I mean, we wouldn’t be very good parents, would we?
That was a year ago. Frank is now full-grown. And spoiled as a Turkish sultan! His purr conjures the song of the sea in your ears, his nose kisses the slightest brush with wet velvet. He sleeps between us most nights, though sometimes he perches on my husband’s chest, blinking in amber complacency. Frank likes to surprise us, a shadow pouncing with a ninja’s near-weightlessness in the middle of the night, according to his comings and goings. Unfortunately this must stop. Because Larry likes to chase Frank down the stairs if we leave the door open, and then we take turns running him down as he taunts us weaving in and out of furniture. Larry’s still a puppy, of course.
Larry came to us a week ago, from a shelter. When we got him he was emaciated, nervous, and terrified of the color white. It took three days before he stopped barking at the creakings underneath us, the sniffles and sighs that accompany our sleep. Now he’ll jump down and lick the hands that offer themselves from under the bed, stopping to shake himself as dogs do. This seems to annoy Frank. He crouches on my shoulder, lashing his tail, poised to strike. We fear Frank might try to turn Larry into a scratching post. And Larry’s eyes are so vulnerable, so exposed in that round, fleshy face, so grinning and ludicrous, like Falstaff’s.
We may have to get rid of Frank–unless he’s willing to sleep under the bed, like the others.
