Austin — Tonight I sing to myself until the puppy discovers herself. As I start the practice I kick a tennis ball across the studio floor and she chases, sliding and stumbling on the smooth wood, ball play, ball prey.
Then, she lets one kick go by, her attention caught by something. The ball nestles behind a shelf as she stands transfixed. She starts a low growl and I keep singing. I see that she has found her reflection in the exterior glass door, made a mirror by the black night.
I lose awareness of what I’m singing. When I hear it, it’s like processional, ritual music, honoring this inevitable moment. At the same time I realize that I’m projecting all the lofty significance on it just as she is projecting an imagined rival, aping her every move.