Friday, April 23, 2004

That Dog

That Dog by Tommy Acuff. Heh.

That Dog. I passed him back there.

He made me think, That Dog was thinking so hard.

That Dog had something on his mind.

Something huge.

He didn't even look at me. Just let me walk on by. Not even a glance. Nary a courtesy bark. That Dog's yard became his second priority.

That Dog.

What could weigh down on a dog like that?

That Dog has a lot on his mind.

He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, That Dog.

Or his back. I don't know where dogs carry their thoughts.

Their heads?



Maybe their asses. They chew around there a lot.

Here dog. Think about this. Could you kill one baby to save a million?

Let me chew on it, the dog would say. And then he would chew his behind.

I don't think That Dog carries the weight of the world in his ass. Nope. Because That Dog was just off in space. Staring. At nothing.


He probably had a big decision to make. About somebody he loves.

Or maybe somebody had hurt him. To his soul. To the cockles of his doggy heart. To his ass.

Or maybe he was just analyzing some crap he'd just eaten, using the ultra-sensitive taste and nosebuds he carries in his doggy head.

Crap. Literally. That he'd found.

I'm not much of one to wonder about such things.

But That Dog is. Boy, he had a lot on his mind.


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