Dog

I saw this one dog by the side of the road. Thing was heavy, with a really heavy face. But no tongue hanging out, as may at times be seen in the case of other dogs. Thing was aware. Thing stood on teensy legs and saw me looking at him and seemed grim and retiring, as if his pantlessness was, to his mind, an unfortunate deal. On impulse I whistled. Like, Here boy. Or, Fetch. This seemed to me funny. Hilarious, actually. I would have slapped my hand to my knee if I’d been, you know, sitting down. In his face—the dog’s face—there was no alteration. Thing looked and kept looking at me in its severe but modest way. And I was ashamed. Is that over dramatic? I felt like I’d added some meaningful weight to the case that might someday be brought against me. I’d dissed this miserable beast of the road. I’d failed to call him brother.