Free Time For Dogs
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What do dogs do in their free time? Do they diet and behave and make themselves useful? A vacation from the labors of letting the mailman know what awaits him lest he let a finger linger. The dogs in my dreams always ask me to do such long awaited activities. We burst onto long embankments, chase down squirrels and rip them to shreds.
I remember an old dog when I was a kid. We used to like to do stuff and huff and puff. Maybe dig a hole if the opportunity arose. When it got boring we would fight until one of us was slightly injured. Then slink to neutral corners while mom checked the relevant immunization records.
Everyone is so concerned about their dog these days. Walking past the dog park I see dogs better cared for than three-fourths of the world's children. The dog nannies huddle in the corner, smoke and chat about the neuroses of each animal's owner. Guess the behavioral disorder made manifest in the overbred spastic labradour unable to excrement on the asphalt.
The dog park is on the way to the used bookstore. What do bookstore employees do in their free time? I assume they take a break from silently seething at the rabble of humanity. They eye me for problem making potential. Book readers are erratic customers. We are cheap, picky, prickly and have nowhere to go. I understand why the keepers of the books must choke down spite to spit out smiles.
I sniff around the paperbacks and pet a cat. Here's a pet. The cat. They know what you are, who you are and you can just go ahead and pet their ass. Then maybe they give a little purr. The cat and I sit down with some old novels. What do I even look for in a novel? Is it drunken English lads careening into old crones? Or is it the evil tart who made them do it? Us book readers are a despairing lot. With furrowed brow we try and avoid the poetry section. Perhaps popular science. Just how big is this universe? Just how do I copulate more within pack animal social structures?
A woman and her pug lead me back out on the street. Why do people suddenly like dogs with smashed faces? I like dogs with long noses that sniff out what you had for dinner yesterday. But such are the tastes of those whose opinion counts. I follow her and her smudge pudge into an arty store. It is going out of business. What will the arty store owners do in their free time? They might cover their nude statues with sensible slacks and spend the afternoon polishing shoes.
I love this store and am sad that it is going out of business. Where will I find obsessive compulsive prints of elongated babies? Or little pleas for help written on driftwood? Or Japanese snack food? This store should be making it. But instead we get our culture at the sandwich shop. Where we affirm lifestyle choices by eating mechanically separated industrial farm animal. We should all feel a bit smaller now that the arty store is gone. Especially when the drug dealer's girlfriend gets her dream of owning a nail salon. Please scratch my eyes out so I never see another another nail salon.
I grieve in the slacker coffee house across the street. For no reason no dogs allowed in here by order of the health department. I sit in the smoking section and don't smoke and scribble small drawings of my dream tree house. It has a rotating widow's peak. In the back by the bus tub and butt mounds, brochures and posters advertise music and art shows. One card only has a time and place and a picture of a dog wearing an Aztec mask. I consider whether the masked dog means free wine and snacks at this show. I pocket the picture of amores perros in tepid consideration.
I go to the old lunch place down the street for a fish sandwich and deep fried potatoes. The same guys have been running around this hot kitchen for years now. In their free time they make sure to count all their change before leaving the register area. They make my sammie just right, give me way too many fries and afterwards I must stagger out. Much like a greedy dog who has stolen a ham off his owner's table.
My friends' dog took a five pound ham off the table, then when she couldn't finish it, she hid the rest in her owners' bed to nibble on later. She lay in a semi conscious stupor for three days afterwards. And so we must ask ourselves again, what do dogs do in their free time? Do they fast and grieve for the mischief they have caused? It is hard to know since they are always working.
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What do dogs do in their free time? Do they diet and behave and make themselves useful? A vacation from the labors of letting the mailman know what awaits him lest he let a finger linger. The dogs in my dreams always ask me to do such long awaited activities. We burst onto long embankments, chase down squirrels and rip them to shreds.
I remember an old dog when I was a kid. We used to like to do stuff and huff and puff. Maybe dig a hole if the opportunity arose. When it got boring we would fight until one of us was slightly injured. Then slink to neutral corners while mom checked the relevant immunization records.
Everyone is so concerned about their dog these days. Walking past the dog park I see dogs better cared for than three-fourths of the world's children. The dog nannies huddle in the corner, smoke and chat about the neuroses of each animal's owner. Guess the behavioral disorder made manifest in the overbred spastic labradour unable to excrement on the asphalt.
The dog park is on the way to the used bookstore. What do bookstore employees do in their free time? I assume they take a break from silently seething at the rabble of humanity. They eye me for problem making potential. Book readers are erratic customers. We are cheap, picky, prickly and have nowhere to go. I understand why the keepers of the books must choke down spite to spit out smiles.
I sniff around the paperbacks and pet a cat. Here's a pet. The cat. They know what you are, who you are and you can just go ahead and pet their ass. Then maybe they give a little purr. The cat and I sit down with some old novels. What do I even look for in a novel? Is it drunken English lads careening into old crones? Or is it the evil tart who made them do it? Us book readers are a despairing lot. With furrowed brow we try and avoid the poetry section. Perhaps popular science. Just how big is this universe? Just how do I copulate more within pack animal social structures?
A woman and her pug lead me back out on the street. Why do people suddenly like dogs with smashed faces? I like dogs with long noses that sniff out what you had for dinner yesterday. But such are the tastes of those whose opinion counts. I follow her and her smudge pudge into an arty store. It is going out of business. What will the arty store owners do in their free time? They might cover their nude statues with sensible slacks and spend the afternoon polishing shoes.
I love this store and am sad that it is going out of business. Where will I find obsessive compulsive prints of elongated babies? Or little pleas for help written on driftwood? Or Japanese snack food? This store should be making it. But instead we get our culture at the sandwich shop. Where we affirm lifestyle choices by eating mechanically separated industrial farm animal. We should all feel a bit smaller now that the arty store is gone. Especially when the drug dealer's girlfriend gets her dream of owning a nail salon. Please scratch my eyes out so I never see another another nail salon.
I grieve in the slacker coffee house across the street. For no reason no dogs allowed in here by order of the health department. I sit in the smoking section and don't smoke and scribble small drawings of my dream tree house. It has a rotating widow's peak. In the back by the bus tub and butt mounds, brochures and posters advertise music and art shows. One card only has a time and place and a picture of a dog wearing an Aztec mask. I consider whether the masked dog means free wine and snacks at this show. I pocket the picture of amores perros in tepid consideration.
I go to the old lunch place down the street for a fish sandwich and deep fried potatoes. The same guys have been running around this hot kitchen for years now. In their free time they make sure to count all their change before leaving the register area. They make my sammie just right, give me way too many fries and afterwards I must stagger out. Much like a greedy dog who has stolen a ham off his owner's table.
My friends' dog took a five pound ham off the table, then when she couldn't finish it, she hid the rest in her owners' bed to nibble on later. She lay in a semi conscious stupor for three days afterwards. And so we must ask ourselves again, what do dogs do in their free time? Do they fast and grieve for the mischief they have caused? It is hard to know since they are always working.
##^^##
posted by RSS Spirit Combine | 1:29 PM
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