Flea Spit

VERONICA CHATER

He runs. He always runs. From the fleas that make him crazy. From the sting of their bites. From the tickle of their crawling. He runs to cool the heat of his skin. To numb the blurry sensation of fragile nerves tingling. To throw off the invisible enemy playing at the roots of his hair. He runs, throwing snarls over his shoulders at the nagging predators that destroy his peace, snapping crazily at flies and bees as if they were airborne versions of the parasites and must be seized from the skies by stealth. 
He runs, oblivious to the scene he is creating on this sunny day in July in Pleasant Hill Park. He does not notice the disapproving stares of old people who grip their canes in readiness to strike, or the protective movements of mothers who place their bodies between him and their children, or the expressions of alarm from dog owners who snatch their pets from his path. He does not know the fearsome sight he creates when he runs. He simply runs.
His name is Beau, meaning beautiful in French. 
The irony was accidental. He was beautiful when I named him three years ago—when he was a bumbling comedy act of a mixed-Lab puppy, and I was a love-struck fifteen-year-old. But then he grew. His roundness took on edges; his starlit coat lost its sheen; his testicles ballooned and hung low. Beautiful evolved into charming. Charming into peculiar. Peculiar into homely. Homely into ugly. The chubby fur ball with droopy ears and floppy paws disappeared and a different dog took his place: a bull-chested, bony-legged, long-tailed mutt with a shocking case of mange. 

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