Conquest

The safe bet: she likes the taste of the old glue that binds the ancient paperbacks. Or the soft, torn covers invite her to chew. And that she’s picked not one, not two, but three of his books could be chalked up to their proximity to her snout (second shelf from the floor). But, for whatever reason, my nine-month old Labrador puppy seems to have a hankering for D.H. Lawrence. She started with volume three of his collected short stories, which could be seen as disrespect to the short story form in general or maybe that it sat on top of the stack. She moved on to The Rainbow a few days later and just this morning has taken a bite out of The Kangaroo. I question her motivation. Maybe, like Geoff Dyer in his book on Lawrence, Out of Sheer Rage, she will soon tire of the big novels and turn to the collected letters. I should put up some barrier so she can’t get to these damp relics of my young adulthood. But I keep thinking what she’s really after are the steamier texts, Aaron’s Rod or Lady Chatterly’s Lover; that in her innate puppiness she pines for the mystical physicality of Sons & Lovers. None of this late-night book bingeing has gotten me to reread Lawrence, however. (Though I have pulled out the Dyer.) Instead, after each transgression I push the sweet dog’s snout into the pages and intone “Noooooo” before letting her go, though I am not sure I am helping matters. Lola prances around for a minute looking sheepish—clearly it’s a matter of not being able to resist the temptation—then curls up in her dog bed to sleep, dreaming no doubt, of her next conquest.