She stole a dog out of love. We knew her a little and therefore we knew that these were the actions of a crazy woman. She had become a kind of a joke, someone we tolerated vaguely, taking a deep breath before serving her. We knew there would always be some pedantic instructions about wrapping her gift, the wrong ribbon, the wrong coloured paper. When she stole the dog we were not too surprised. I suppose the others just added it to her eccentricities, but I have to admit I wondered. If a love is so strong it becomes sexual. I know this because of the terrible tug of my love for my friends. One friend after another falling victim to this odd obsession. The dreams, the little fantasies, the late night longing. The early morning apologies.
When she had the little dog in her hands how did she stroke it? When the object of obsession becomes real for you what will you do? How would I react if one of the objects of my longing responded positively? Was she frightened? I know I would be. Did she touch it in secret and with no one to know? How would it be for me? For her?
We hang the new article on the door of the cupboard and laugh about it. She stole the dog. A joke because we have made her a joke. I am sure that it is only I who have left to wonder. Empathetically. What on earth would I do?