I would like to tell you a story, about a friend. A story? An elegy, perhaps. A friend? A soul. As fly as mine own when I'm getting all that static electricity nonstop.
In the "living room" is a TV. I don't call it the "living room" myself. I live everywhere. I mosey. Move my legs and move my ass and follow the scents that life offers me, to whatever far-flung corner of the world will accept an adventurer such as I. My home is the streets, the couch, the car with the two back seats pushed down, the log, the garbage dumpster, when it fell over, after the drunken driving man hit it, much to my delight. The term "living room" implies a smallness of life that offends me. You want to live in a room? You do you. Stay out my path, for I am going out to live!
So the TV is in the living room. I spend days watching it sometimes. I use it as a mirror, mostly. Do I still look great today? Yes I do! Other times it has pictures on it. When I tell people I watch the news, they act surprised. You thought you were the only one smart enough to understand the man and the woman with the paint face and the noises they make? And the Middle East? Come on. All of us know about the problems going on around the world farther than you could ever walk to. There's places in this world with no sausage to eat and also they have Ebola.
We have all heard about the predicament of Excalibur. The dog who gave his life away. Mighty and rounded were his shoulders, and strong were his jaws. Yet the powers that be made his life to end. What was his crime? The ebola. Being a good friend to the woman with the abola. Excalibur? He didn't care about the ebola. He cared about love, and friendship, and good dog, and churros—funny thing about him, he loved churros. To me: too sweet! He loved to eat partial churros off the ground though. In his defense, most of the powdered sugar falls off by the time they've been dropped and kicked around a little. I can see eating a churro under those conditions, although I've never done it myself. I would never judge. Never! Hunger can make you into a licking beast, out to lick, crazed.
Yes, we have heard of Excalibur. I do not call him just a dog in Spain euthanized from the bobola. I call him my brother. No, he is not my real brother. My real brother I don't talk about because of various things that he chewed up, that belonged to me, and I mean chewed to the point where I couldn't chew them myself. Not a moderate amount, but like a psycho. We have our issues. Excalibur, though? We got no issues. He was, until the very end, a good dog. His haunches will be remembered.
Tonight when I sit in the living room, I will not just walk out of the screen door to the tree where the termites are. I will go in the living room and sit there. I will go in the living room and live there, momentarily, for him.
[Image by Jim Cooke]