For Rover, With Torn Edges and Drool
You always loved everything to be defined. So. Here with torn edges, and perhaps a little drool. That I am sure you can - with a little love of life, ignore. Let me put this in your hand with my paws pressed against your chest.
1. Status - one's position in society; the word derived from the latin statum or standing (past participle of the verb stare, to stand)
2. Status Anxiety - A worry, so pernicious as to be capable of ruining extended stretches of our lives, that we are in danger of failing to conform to the ideals of success laid down by our society and that we may as a result be stripped of our dignity and respect; a worry that we are currently occupying too modest a run or are about to fall to a lower one.
3. Hunger for status, like all appetites, can have its uses: spurring us to do justic to our talents, encouraging excellence, restraining us from harmful eccentricities and cementing members of a society around a common value system. But, like all appetites, its excesses can also kill.
Life is a phenomenon in need of criticism, for we are, as fallen creatures, in permanent danger of worshipping false gods, of failing to understand ourselves, and misinterpreting the behavior of others, of growing unproductively anxious or desirous, and of losing ourselves to vanity and error.
And I don't really understand your words. I just sense their shape. You could call me by my name, and then say Come! And I would be at your side. Tongue wagging. But you could also say. Pizza! I will arrive there by your side. I listen to their shape and their tone.
I am sorry for the torn edges. I confuse things with prey, at times. And sometimes, for no reason - my body goes stiff sometimes. I have sharp teeth. Seeing this fly through the air, to you, made me want to jump up and bite it. And seeing you sometimes makes me drool.
I remember , Rover. When I brought you home. A sign that said puppies. Free to Good home. No one was home, so I wrote a note and placed against the sill. The sign on the door said .. "God never closes a door but opens a window".
I had a hamburger and I put it down on the ground. The first dog to take it would be mine. This was you.
I kept this a secret until now, but at that moment I had just escaped an abusive yellow shorthair not two miles down the road at the pound. She peed submissively when she saw me. It took me 15 minutes to realize that I needed to drive back to the pound, and turned her back in - doing so moments before close. She was, I found out later - in fact, a digger. Close call.
You woofed and barked and played with me. I am someone who needs play. You looked like a little bear cub. Yours were the teeth who first found meat. You were and are black , with some white. Just a little bit more, now.
You cut your teeth on culture and anarchy. I spent days with you fetching tennis balls at sunset while you threw them to me. I bring them back to you still. You and I live in a dying world. You scented it first. But I will follow bravery and lead us straight to the kill.
And then, we can roll all around in it until the scent gets all over our skin and covers up the smell of fear and and sweat and we are smelling of death and rotten things and the scent of grass and the outdoors and tennis balls.
Signed, Master.
1. Status - one's position in society; the word derived from the latin statum or standing (past participle of the verb stare, to stand)
2. Status Anxiety - A worry, so pernicious as to be capable of ruining extended stretches of our lives, that we are in danger of failing to conform to the ideals of success laid down by our society and that we may as a result be stripped of our dignity and respect; a worry that we are currently occupying too modest a run or are about to fall to a lower one.
3. Hunger for status, like all appetites, can have its uses: spurring us to do justic to our talents, encouraging excellence, restraining us from harmful eccentricities and cementing members of a society around a common value system. But, like all appetites, its excesses can also kill.
Life is a phenomenon in need of criticism, for we are, as fallen creatures, in permanent danger of worshipping false gods, of failing to understand ourselves, and misinterpreting the behavior of others, of growing unproductively anxious or desirous, and of losing ourselves to vanity and error.
And I don't really understand your words. I just sense their shape. You could call me by my name, and then say Come! And I would be at your side. Tongue wagging. But you could also say. Pizza! I will arrive there by your side. I listen to their shape and their tone.
I am sorry for the torn edges. I confuse things with prey, at times. And sometimes, for no reason - my body goes stiff sometimes. I have sharp teeth. Seeing this fly through the air, to you, made me want to jump up and bite it. And seeing you sometimes makes me drool.
I remember , Rover. When I brought you home. A sign that said puppies. Free to Good home. No one was home, so I wrote a note and placed against the sill. The sign on the door said .. "God never closes a door but opens a window".
I had a hamburger and I put it down on the ground. The first dog to take it would be mine. This was you.
I kept this a secret until now, but at that moment I had just escaped an abusive yellow shorthair not two miles down the road at the pound. She peed submissively when she saw me. It took me 15 minutes to realize that I needed to drive back to the pound, and turned her back in - doing so moments before close. She was, I found out later - in fact, a digger. Close call.
You woofed and barked and played with me. I am someone who needs play. You looked like a little bear cub. Yours were the teeth who first found meat. You were and are black , with some white. Just a little bit more, now.
You cut your teeth on culture and anarchy. I spent days with you fetching tennis balls at sunset while you threw them to me. I bring them back to you still. You and I live in a dying world. You scented it first. But I will follow bravery and lead us straight to the kill.
And then, we can roll all around in it until the scent gets all over our skin and covers up the smell of fear and and sweat and we are smelling of death and rotten things and the scent of grass and the outdoors and tennis balls.
Signed, Master.
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