Free I'm Sorry You Feel That Way by Diana Joseph

stars, there’s a beam of sunshine casting its golden light on him and him alone, and a chorus of angels sings a single holy note, and even though the boy is minding his own business, he’s thinking his own thoughts, when I look at him and see my brother, I am almost overwhelmed by the urge to reach out and give that kid a hard shove. I don’t, of course, but the impulse is still there.

Humping the Dinosaur
    H e was a red puppy with a blob of white at the tip of his tail, as if he planned to paint a portrait with ranch dressing. He had white freckles on his paws and on his chin. He had a black spot on his cheek, like a lady’s beauty mark. His ears were pointy, his snout was long, his nose a good stretch from his face. He was cute, white-tipped with fuzz, pink-tongued, and he had that warm and fleeting puppy smell. He was so tiny, and he seemed so sweet and helpless and dear. I saw him in the window at the pet store, a border collie-German shepherd mix, eighty bucks, shots included. On impulse, I brought him home. I thought a pet would distract me from my problems, but instead the puppy behaved in ways that reminded me of them.
    The puppy seemed neurotic. Antisocial. He seemed obsessive-compulsive. He was always scratching at himself and snarling at the other puppies in obedience school. He growled at small children. He prodded his nose toward human female crotches. He lunged at bearded men who were of above-average height.
    He could be a very smelly puppy.
    He reeked like something forgotten, something rotten, something feral and fecund and musky. Like rotting leaves and synthetic raccoon urine. The smell pulsated off of him when he was growling or barking or showing his teeth. He smelled bad a lot.
    The puppy snarled at people on bicycles and rollerbladers and skateboarders. He didn’t much care for pregnant ladies, either, like the one who strolled past our house daily. She crossed the street if she saw us on the front lawn: me trying to teach the puppy to Sit! Stay! Be nice! and the puppy emitting a menacing vibration from deep in his throat if he happened to see her and snapping at imaginary flies or clicking his teeth against his groin if he didn’t.
    I had to walk him at five in the morning so we could avoid running into other dogs. The puppy attacked other dogs. He’d fight fearlessly, though he never won, always going back for more, even after getting his ass kicked by a three-legged cocker spaniel.
    But when I think back to this time, what I remember the most is the puppy humping things.
    Even though I’d had him neutered, he was always humping something. The blue pillow from the couch, the couch cushions, the couch. The cloth yellow dinosaur with a voice box sewn in its belly that squealed I’m the baby! with each thrust. My sandal. A pile of laundry. My son’s leg.
    I’d hear the boy hollering for me from the living room— Mom! Mom! —and when I went to the living room, I’d find the boy with his hands in the air like he was showing the cops he meant no harm. The puppy’s arms would be wrapped around the boy’s knees; the puppy would be partying his privates against the boy’s calf. Help! the boy would yip. Get him off of me! Help me! and I’d shout, You rotten little mutt! You mangy mongrel! You nasty little cur! You bad, bad puppy! I’d whack the puppy with a fly swatter until he let go. Or I’d use a rolled-up newspaper. Or the sandal he had recently made love to.
    My son was in fifth grade when I brought home the puppy. I wanted the two of them to love each other, but it was more like jealous sibling rivalry. Sometimes, the puppy ran into the boy’s room and snatched his socks or his favorite hooded sweatshirt or the really hard math homework the boy had just completed. Then the puppy ran under the dining room table to shred these things.
    Other times, the puppy ran into the boy’s room, jumped up on the boy’s bed, and rubbed his stinky, musk-scented doggie body all over the boy’s