... down a hole.

 
 
Picture
'Gene Simmons is my bitch'
Its shoulders hunker down as it languidly looks for a place to poop, this beast of noble pedigree, elegant in the foible of its servility, a spirit forever at sea--the primeval sins of man proving inadequate solid ground. 

A symbol of modern human loneliness and illusion is a natural foot wedged sorely into a svelte designer shoe.  It’s NYC. 

Conrad was a German Shepard, equally capable of ripping the throat from a Rottweiler as coaxing a loving cackle from a baby by tender licks to plump cheeks. 

He lived in a studio on the Upper East Side, transplanted from a boundless estate in the south of England. 

Cappuccino poured on the ground that he may lap up along with street soot, that was Conrad's settlement; his table manners were better than most, but cups, and the shot of dignity they floated, seemed methodically withheld. 

It wasn’t the lack of utensils that bothered him as much as the atrophy of his muscles. 

He used to be a truly fine specimen.  He had become as meager as the concessions that sustained him. 

The city was a container.  Things were forced to fit, even big dogs.  A chain of conformity chokes even the occasional erection here, the scent of a horny bitch, wasted, a side effect of civil obedience. 

One could fight for space; Conrad was never much for throwing elbows, he never had to.  Besides, fighting was for young dogs, and he wasn’t as big as he used to be, now just an old dog in a small apartment.   
 


Comments

ben

Sun, 14 Jun 2009 00:02:45

aw, what a post-tease. you leave me with no other choice but to try and imagine the hilarity of how incongruous it is to have a big dog in a small apartment.

 

Daphne

Fri, 04 Sep 2009 08:58:22

Nice writing. That's a beautiful dog, is it yours?

 



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