Feeding & Nutrition

The market had herring, the whole fish, the silver ones, piled like wood, and the old woman selling them looked at my dog and said give him one, the way people say give him a sweet, except this was a fish, and the fish was the advice, and the advice was free, and the free was suspicious, but the herring was a pound, and the pound was the risk, and the risk was a dog who'd never had a whole fish, and the never was about to end, by the market, with the silver pile.

I cooked it. Plain, the oven, no salt, the bones soft enough to mash, because a dog and a fish bone is the worry everyone has, and the worry is real, but the cooked herring bone is soft, the old woman knew, the way old women know fish, and the mash was grey and smelled of the sea, and the sea was the thing my collie's coat needed, the dull coat, the one that looked like dust, and the dust was the diet, the kibble that promised shine and delivered matte, and the matte was the lie I'd been feeding, weekly, by the bag.

The breath cleared. Not instantly, the breath was the surprise, the thing I didn't expect from a fish, but the oily fish, the omega, the thing the supplement tubs sell for ten times the price, was in the herring, whole, and the whole was the point, and the coat changed first, the dull went gloss, and the gloss was the mirror proof, and the breath, the bad breath, the kibble breath, the stale one, cleared too, and the cleared was the room, the room you could sit in, near the dog, without the turn, and the turn was the thing I'd done, away, and the away stopped.

Once a week became the rule. The herring, the Friday fish, the thing the collie learned to expect, the way he expects the walk, and the expect was the joy, the dog who loves a fish is a dog who loves the sea he's never seen, and the seen is the smell, and the smell is the dinner, and the dinner is the gloss, and the gloss is the proof, and the proof is the vet, who felt the coat and said good, the rare good, and the good was the herring, and the herring was a pound, and the pound beat the tub, and the tub went in the bin, finally.

The bones worried me less. Soft, cooked, mashed, the herring is built for a dog's gut, the wild gut, the one before kibble, and the before is the truth, that dogs ate fish before they ate bags, and the bags are the new thing, and the new thing is fine, but the fish is the old thing, and the old thing works, and the works is the coat, the breath, the shine, the thing the adverts promise and the herring delivers, and the delivers is cheap, and the cheap is the joke on the supplement aisle, the ten-pound tub that the pound fish beats, weekly, by the market.

I buy two now. One for him, one for the cat, who'd been suspicious, then converted, the way cats convert, slowly, with disdain, then devotion, and the devotion is the empty bowl, and the empty is the verdict, and the verdict is the herring, and the herring is the market, and the market is Friday, and Friday is the fish, and the fish is the gloss, and the gloss is the room you can sit in, and the sit is near the dog, and the dog is shiny, and the shiny is a pound, and the pound is the lesson, that the old woman by the silver pile knew more than the bag, and the bag is still in the cupboard, but the fish is on the table, and the table is where the dog looks, Fridays, with hope, the silver hope, the cheap one, the right one.

He waits by the oven now. The smell, the sea smell, the Friday smell, and the waiting is the ritual, the collie who waits for fish is a collie who's found his food, and the found is the coat, and the coat is the proof, and the proof is in your hand when you stroke him, the gloss, the real gloss, not the advert gloss, and the real is the herring, and the herring is a pound, and the pound is the story, the short one, about a market and an old woman and a dog who'd been matte, and the matte is gone, and the gone is the breath, and the breath is cleared, and the cleared is the room, and the room is where we sit, Fridays, with the sea between us, cheap and shining.