Cutting to the Quick

More lessons on love from my dog, Rose.

Rose, my dog, ran so hard the other day that she tore off one of her nails and now the quick is exposed, a pink fleshy little finger that is the thing you are really absolutely not supposed to touch, let alone cut. You cut to the quick, you do not cut the quick. I have cut the quick several times before. I’ve held her paw in my hand, the opaque darkness of her nails obscuring the pink fleshy little fingers within them, so dark that I cannot see where her hidden tenderness begins and ends inside, and the guillotine of my clippers thus hovers right over her blood vessels and nerves, her exquisite sensitivity, and unwittingly, not knowing yet how to do this, not having made the mistakes I needed to make to learn how to take care of her well, I have clipped, like a fool, right into her vulnerability, betraying her as she stands there trusting me entirely or at least enough to be still and allow this man to do this weird thing we do every once in a while where he gets down next to me and tells me not to move so I don’t move and then he takes my paws in his hands and does something to my nails and I lick my chops because I’m a little scared but he says to me in his quiet voice not his angry voice that I’m a good girl and thank you and it’ll be over soon and I like that and then sometimes but not every time the scary ouchy thing comes out of nowhere so I scream.

It’s more of a yip than a scream, and for her it’s over as soon as it’s over. She doesn’t linger in resentment. There is no how-could-you-have-done-such-a-terrible-thing-to-me-you-bastard, there is only the quiet licking of herself to begin the work of healing which is now the primary focus of her attention. For me, it’s not over until at least an hour later when I’ve fed the gods of self-loathing my fair share of perseverations and they finally decide to go bother someone else.