ON BEING A DOG (The Journey to Find Longer Pants)

You will appear to be complicated by a need for longer pants. Stress of looping and devolving thoughts may leave you bedridden, marinating in nervous sweat as you repeatedly consider your bare ankles over the course of many days. Did you throw your drink at a crow the other night? Relax. Sweating like this at the pants store is not a good look. Prepare. You'll form an imagined sequence of soldering irons searing furrows through pink and grey folds nestled in a faberge egg, careful to avoid the lumps which coordinate debit card accounts and store locations. Once this cleansing is completed, you'll feel like new. Like brand spankin NEW new. Real car smell. New. 

Close the egg. 

Next, an emptied confidence will propel you outside above the surface of frozen grey lakes, past grizzled bag trolls, and humming dinosaurs, wheeled, plated, and half made of sunglasses. 
Eventually you'll make it to the pants store, but inside will be nothing but tables and chairs. You'll find a seat across from an airplane that crashed through the ceiling amongst a pile of various debris and complimentary tap water. They'll put a thin glowing brick away in their pocket, and ask if you'd like a burger. You'll both have burgers. Medium rare. You'll notice their tailoring is suited perfectly to themselves. Bun to seed ratio? Game on lock down. The airplane will ruffle your hair when you explain how the shortness of your pants developed without your noticing. It will ask you about your parents. It will roll you over and scratch your burger filled tummy, and chuckle as you push its wings away. 
"You are a dog"
"No I'm not!"
"You are a dog"
"You are a dog, and dogs do not need pants at all."
"I'm not, and you must take that back or I will make you look mean in public."
"You are a dog, and knowledge of this truth is beyond you."
The airplane will ask you on a walk. This approach has happened many times before, always successfully distracting. First, you agree, then, a strong line is inserted through your belly button, and threaded between your organs, to exit your backside. This line is wound tightly around the upper half of your torso, arms bound to your sides, hands free by your hips. Legs, also free - to walk. Half of these experiences have ended abruptly after the plane took off, sucking you up within it, and ejecting you, rocketing over fields of crumpled tinfoil. The other half of these experiences (this one among them) end in being spoon fed ice cream.
"If you are not a dog, then why do you let me walk you?"
"I am generous with myself."
"And you are excited by airplanes."
"You are excited by airplanes."
It's true, a fantasy goes that the next time this plane lifts you above endless sunglasses, you will not be ejected. You will meld into the pilot's seat with your perfect length pants, well suited to the altitude, and padded in the knee for incidents of impact. You'll be accepted and relish in the knowledge of flight. See everything from within a hard bodied tube. Grow soft and fat in seat belts. Be alone.
Be where the ground looks like far away sponges, that you'll never have to touch. 
"Would you like another spoon full of ice cream?"
"Oh, yes please"
"And would you like another spoon full of ice cream?"
"Oh, yes please"
"Another spoon full?"
"Oh, yes please. Um, airplane? It seems that this pants store only has burgers and ice cream in it. Could you untie me?"
"And would you like another spoon full of ice cream?"
"You are not listening."
"That is true, I have difficulty listening"
"Please untie me, I have to find another pants store. My ankles are freezing."
"You are a dog, you do not have ankles"
Uncertainty creeps into your newly cleansed mind, replacing the day's confidence with maggots. 
"Perhaps you're right"
"Oh dear, I didn't think you'd ever see. Your ankles aren't freezing, it's just that your legs are too hot."
"Wait, I have ankles"
"No no, you are a dog."
With that, the airplane will lift you to a home without mirrors. There you will be untied. You'll wander through halls of windows to a kitchen with stainless steel appliances, where a distorted image of yourself in the polished stove door affirms the suspicion that you've been duped. There clearly is a patch of skin exposed between the top of your shoes and the bottom hem of your ever shrinking pants. There are round ends of bone working just beneath the surface of this skin on either side. Light blue and purple veins trafficking your blood to and from your feet. 
The airplane lied. 
With this understanding, there is only one thing left to do. In the dead of night, when it is resting in it's hangar, enter the airplane quietly. Each of your footsteps will translate to dreams of stealthy termites, marching in to chew away at leather upholstered coach seats and fleece blankets. This will in reality, be you, clipping the threads that hold cushion cases around cotton seat pads. You will marvel at the usefulness of your own thumbs as you form a new pair of pants, padding in the knees, leather placed strategically for seating stability. You make quick work and sneak into the pilot's cabin fully suited. Grab a parachute, strap it to your back. Freeze on the scene of you in the doorway, zoom in to focus on a seat lit by various day glow dials. Hold the shot and let the light illuminate a single tear that rolls down the entirety of your face. Ease into the chair. Wrap your fingers around the yolk, and gun it. Rocket STRAIGHT up. The airplane will take a few minutes to become fully conscious from its resting state. Use this time to gain more altitude. Feel yourself press into your bucket seat with the force of cheek wiggling Gs. The airplane will buck as it attempts to right itself. Continue mercilessly, feeling all of your visions snap to configuration around you. Safe in seat belts, melded in this moment. Existing with longer pants. It's almost time to evacuate as all your dreams have been realized. The airplane will begin to rattle as bolts loosen and turbine engines choke from various meetings with unlucky pigeons. You are nearing the apex now. Force yourself against gravity and common sense to the cabin hatch. The passenger cabin has released its contents of oxygen masks by now, and electric sparks emerge from embedded backseat screens like the mouths of cheap Godzilla windup toys which play jittering images of sequels no one wants to watch. Time to jump. The airplane, now just past its apex of ascent begins plummeting back to earth. You grip the doorframe of its now open hatch against solid winds, until the time comes to release yourself. Now. Fall from the ransacked cabin and feel a jolt as you open your shoot. Calm infuses the scene as billowing nylon fills cupping enough air to hold you in a gentle glide. You steer yourself to follow the airplane's descent from an easy distance. You like to watch. It attempts to pull up from the free fall though it is sputtering from lack of gas, and its arc ends by entering the side of a large glass box. The shattering of this box pleases you, as the only thing inside of it was a machine that dispenses luke warm coffee which someone had already taken the first sip of. Rescue ants will find the airplane there and bring it back to its hangar in moments - this will not be a task delegated to you. Instead you will return to your neighborhood far from this jagged scene on the outskirts of town, and plan a time to wash your sheets. Perhaps you will take a trip to a golden lit hillside later where time moves slowly through the mist as your newfound human husband cradles a small version of yourself with its muzzle covered in  pleasant candies. You'll remember the airplane with distain and wonder how you could have ever understood its speech let alone how it could have fed you so many burgers. These thoughts will be disrupted by a happy tableau that fades into an unforeseeable old age, but before that you will all look at each other and chuckle for different reasons.