Scarsdale Station

Charlotte Brontë and I are standing under the overpass, sheltering from a thickening April morning rain. All the other commuters are intent on staking out strategic positions on the train platform, so they can sit in the train car of their choice when the train arrives. Charlotte and I only care about staying dry. Charlotte is wearing a black stuff dress, which does not take well to getting wet. I am wearing my favorite socks. Any train car will do fine for us. I am heading to work. Charlotte is heading into immortality. Well, she is already there, but she is always moving deeper and deeper into her death, the way a cat shifts its bulk to stay inside a sunbeam. This does not require getting a good seat on the train. Instead, it asks that we stand beneath the overpass, listening to pigeons make low vibrations in their dry niches, as though unaware of the rain.

Footnotes on a Fable of Aesop

The dog in the manger was the runt of her litter, the smallest of six.

The dog in the manger dotes on the village priest because he also wears a collar.

The dog in the manger remembers everyone’s smell, even the retired mailman who hasn’t come in a decade.

The dog in the manger nursed three puppies, years ago, including one that was once very sickly but is now the strongest fighter around.

The dog in the manger delights in pheasant meat and will draw blood from another dog that tries to prevent her from gorging.

The dog in the manger habitually scratches an itch first with one hind paw, then the other. Only the right hind paw ever brings satisfaction, but she always tries the left hind paw first, for the sake of fair play.