A much smarter man then I am wondered why is that looking into a dog eyes reveals the wisdom of ten-thousand men. He didn’t know. There is no way that I could possibly reveal the answer either. There is one dog that lives near my house. Maybe he has a house, maybe he doesn’t. I don’t know. But you’ll know right away its him. I call him Droopy even though its mean spirited. He took this hit to his head, right above his left eye and it looks like shit. So half this dog looks like its starting to melt, even his ear lies straight like four week old cut flowers. Poor bastard. The other dogs don’t seem to mind, at least; but maybe they just take pity on him.

Anyways every time I meet Droopy on the street, I look at him, first right, then left, then away for others. He has company you see, but they aren’t glued together at all. Droopy looks back, always just straight ahead; right into you. He trains his eye onto you and you have to be careful when it hits the station. You ever go to an old peoples home? Droopys look always takes me to places like that. Where some hope of what you could be and anticipation of death mixes together and some desperate stench is created. When I walk into those places its always the smell I notice first. I walk in. I smell, I am afraid. If I live, age will still come for me. Then quickly I realize I am the body of attention. I realize that I have become some kind of flesh beacon. It is my skin that is different. It is my eyes that can still read labels. I don’t feel ready to confront the mix of emotions being pushed, silently with others eyes, towards me. ‘I am only one man!’ I feel like I need to exclaim aloud. This is all too much. The damned stupid thing of it all is that not a soul here could hurt me, not really. Hell, being able to walk gives me the KO. But I am still afraid.

Looking away from Droopy helps me return. Looking around I see other dogs now too. Some younger, some smaller, one bigger. I pretend they are a big family even though they look nothing alike. I have to think that these dogs will always be okay. I can’t think about what they are or aren’t eating. But there coat seems to be in good order, paws okay, but maybe they go to the dog shelter every night. The warming place. They must have a good place to sleep in the night and a good meal. Otherwise its too depressing. I am not so far from living like this dog, Droopy, perhaps a big box will fall on my face and I will become like Droopy. Then I will wander around the village looking for what my face can convince people to give up. Sympathy is a tool of the Devil as much as it is of God. Fortunately it is cold and frostbite begins to bite. I remember, looking now again at Droopy, where is warm. I know they cannot join me but I am selfish. I want to be warm. ‘Go home!’ I say to the dogs. I hope they have one. I’m not allowed dogs in mine.