barking mad

A dog is wailing outside my office. Its high-pitched long barks and intermittent moaning is bothering me. Whoever is pulling its chains must have tugged suddenly--I just heard the dog choke a little, its moaning interrupted, only to resume with defiant vigor, as though insulted.

My office is adjacent to a vet clinic, where that complaining dog is probably being hauled to. It sounded indignant in the beginning, but just now, desperate, as though it was screaming its innocence, "You're making a mistake!" it seems to say, "I'm not really sick! I don't need to be brought here! No, no, this is wrong!"

Since I can't hear the owner verbally scold the dog, I'm thinking maybe the dog is sick.

"No, no, this is wrong!"

Or delusional.

Or maybe I am again attributing meaning, where there is none.

requiem

I had dropped my pen near my right foot and was on my way to picking it up when I heard this rrrip. Half-squatting, with my right arm near the pen, I stopped and froze. Skin on my right knee peeked through the faded blue of the pair of jeans that I love. I closed my eyes: five years? Has it been that long?

We, all of us, are dealt in life a hand of cards: we either play it well or fold at the slightest bluff. We, some of us at least, are given clothes to wear, and still we choose to buy that single pair of jeans, and we wear it to death.

We stand here today to remember, nay, to celebrate the life of an apparel that has served its high and noble purpose well. Like an actor in a play dealt only with a minor role, it has nonetheless played its role to the teeth.

Old pair of blue, you have borne life well.