“God is really only another artist. He invented the giraffe, the elephant, and the cat. He has no real style; he just goes on trying other things.”–Picasso
“He, also, invented The Dog.”–Mikel K
Is that love?
Bundy is not going to let me enjoy this coffee; the first coffee that I have bought at a coffee shop in months. Bundy is going to strain at his leash, and whine, the entire time that I sit here.
When I went inside, to get my coffee, he hollered for me, and he hollered, and hollered, like a mad person in a mental institution; he has separation anxiety, amongst many other mental issues. He is scared that I am not coming back, when I tie him down, and walk off to do something. Morisson just sits there pleasant as a pretty spring day, oblivious to the crazy dog that he is tied up next to, the crazy dog that he lives with, the crazy dog that he has to put up with.
I love Bundy, in spite of himself, despite his extreme manic nature. He is bi-polar, I think. He needs a pill. He needs therapy, and a disability check. No one would hire him. He would have been dropped off at the pound, long ago, if he hadn’t been dropped on me.
Bundy wears a muzzle, now, when he is out in public; good thing, too, today. I believe that he just tried to take a friendly bite out of the man who just walked by. Bunder is a “nipper:” that is why he wears the muzzle. He likes to give love bites.
I leave Bundy home when I am doing anything social, anything that involves other living things: human or dog. Another dog comes by, on leash, with master, and is waiting to get into a car. Bundy is moaning, and groaning. He has no manners.
Morisson,on the other hand, sits quietly, pays me great attention without making a huge fuss about it, lets people walk by without lunging at them, without squealing as if he is about to have some sort of weird orgasm.
Peace and love.
Peace and love, I must think when dealing with Bundy.
Peace and love.
It is a beautiful day; springlike in mid-January, and the dogs, and I, are in the middle of a long walk. I have stopped for coffee because I love coffee, and because I really like the coffee shop that is situated about halfway on the long walk that the dogs and I are on, today.
Bundy is a bad dog. He doesn’t mean to be a bad dog; he just can’t help himself. He will bite you smiling at you, while showing you affection. He will take a piece of your clothing, or a piece of your skin off of you while happily jumping up on you to say hello. Even in the muzzle, right now, Bundy is trying to take a happy bite out of the folks who are walking to and fro the coffee shop, unaware, as they are, of what a sinister beast lurks in their mists.
I figure that I look like a bum, sitting here. I haven’t shaven in almost a year. I haven’t cut my hair in over two years. The bomber jacket that I am wearing is close to a decade old(the older a coat gets, the close that I feel to it). Most successful men are off being successful; they are chained to three piece suits, and are wheeling and dealing; making things happen. They are not seated with their dogs, in the cold, outside a coffee shop, scribbling in a small notebook. More power to them, and more power to me. I am seated outside because of Bundy. He throws incredible tantrums if I leave him anywhere.I don’t know that that is love. It is hard for me to slip into the coffee shop to get my refill. Bundy acts like he is being walked off the plank of some ship, like he is being lead to the doggie gas chamber.
I think that Bundy might deter someone who had intentions of breaking into our home. He does not react real well to strangers on our door step. Bundy just lunged at someone with what looked like real intent to maim; no camaradie, no hugging. For some reason, Bundy was out for blood, and would have had it, if not for the muzzle that he wears the minute that he leaves the house.
I will have to drink this second cup of coffee much faster than I did the first one.
Looking at the world around me, I see that it is hard for some people to smile. Who knows what,in their life, has brought them to this place of anger, and or withdrawal. I have to accept people for who they are. I look like a homeless guy, and not everybody smiles at the homeless.
K Pics above: Left: Bundy waiting to kill. Middle: K waiting for the big book deal. Right: The K Dogs waiting on K..
To Show Me The Stars
There is nothing to calm the fear of a day
full of creditors who cant be satisfied,
dunning letters that can’t be replied to,
a walk in the dark, to the store, for ice cream
with a dog happy to see me,
and a daughter who brings a flashlight
to show me the stars.
Each time he rides his bike away,
he gets further down the street.
“Can I go see the twins?” he asks,
and he’s off again.
“Can I knock on their door?” he asks.
I say, “no,” and explain that I’ll have to
leave soon, and that he won’t be able to
ride his bike much longer.
He’s seven and as he rides away this time,
I realize that, one day, he may be
riding away to college or to a job
and that I won’t see him everyday,
and I think, well, maybe, I don’t have to
get to that art opening on time.
Alms for the poor: