That Dog Is Dead

And there’s a meteor shower going on.

First–and last–the dog.  That dog.  The one, when you turn onto Myrtle Street from Rantoul on your way up to Cabot… there used to be a dog.  A yipping, shitty little dog that yipped its little, yippy, shitty face off every time you walked by its house.

That dog must be dead.  Because it no longer yips.

I just noticed.

This is all a grand metaphor that you can’t possibly understand.

Be careful what you wish for.


One response to “That Dog Is Dead

  1. AKA, The Case Against Blogging Drunk.

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