I found a folder on the desktop titled "My only baby precious doggy pics." I am not making this folder name up; I do not have to stoop to mendacity in order to make my point here - the prison guard supplies me with enough evidence of her dog-adoration to fill several hundred blogs with my bitterness. I only keep the one.
But look! See how he lunges forward? What does he see? Is he about to catch and kill a lizard? What joy he must be feeling. If I felt him capable of conversation, I might one day inquire into what these walks are like. Oh, but I cannot imagine suffering the humiliation of admitting ignorance to him.
The pictures get worse. Please prepare yourself in whatever way makes you feel the most comfortable. I enjoy scratching the couch when I am nervous.
They take him to look at art.
Can he, with his inferior canine brain, even appreciate this? The insult I feel is a thing bigger than me; it is a series of natural disasters exploding inside my heart. It is an infinity of insects crawling just beneath my skin. It is the moon on fire. It is the whole universe choking to death.
Here again, the dog with art, totally ignoring it, focusing probably on a pile of another dog's vomit or something equally disgusting.
My questions is this: Why would the prison guard and her husband bring the dog to see this? Why have they never taken me?
What does he see when he looks at this sculpture? Does he notice its beauty? Does it evoke in him sadness because it will likely outlast him and everyone he knows? Does he think about the properties of rock and of the transitoriness of beauty?
Does this picture mean they are considering sending him to art school? As I said earlier, words are inadequate. If you were here and I could bite you just a little (not hard reader, have no qualms of that), perhaps you would get a better sense of my consternation.
And what would his art look like? I imagine vague line drawings of smiling piles of feces or watercolors of other dogs' genitals.
The sole reason I am not completely devastated by these photographs is the constant presence of a certain object: the leash. It is in every picture. The prison guard's "only precious baby doggy" is apparently not to be trusted.
I do not believe I would ever submit to such an affront, even if it was to attend a prestigious art school. I will not be chained. The opprobrium of the leash is for the dog!
But it doesn't matter, because she never even asked me.