Lorca is our dog and she never barks. There are dogs up and
down this street. Chihuahuas, packs of unneutered Pit bulls, a few mutts, some
smaller dogs with white hair, and an enormous German Shepherd. There’s a
poodle, too. The size of a shepherd, but hopelessly stupid looking. Curly black
hair, his name is Winston.
If I walk up our apartment’s back steps and that dog is in the
yard, it will bark at me. He sights me from two houses down. I want to throw a
rock at Winston, but yeah, I know, that would be cruel, it’s just a dog. If it
were up to Winston, that wouldn't be his yard, his life, he wouldn’t even have
that name.
My downstairs neighbor, a guy, barks back at the dog, too. Which
is a little weird, I thought, but only a little; he and I are of the same mind,
that dog sucks. I look at Winston and say mean things in too many words. “That
dog has a bad attitude” I say. “Winston, shut the fuck up, you are juvenile.”
Then I pet Lorca, who never barks, and I say, “I’m sure glad you're a normal
dog.” But she is not normal, that’s why we gave her the name of a dead poet
from Andalusia; she’s strange, she doesn’t really play that often, tries to flee
from us at speeds of up to 34mph if she’s off the leash, has really odd habits.
But Lorca is silent and kind, and for this I love her.
Though I can take no credit. Lorca came to us that way,
stoic. Winston barks and barks. “Winston, shut up, you are terrible,” I say.
And then Winston’s owner, who I did not know was in her yard, says, “Winston,
please,” and I cringed because I didn’t know she was there. She just has this
dog, who sucks in public, and maybe he is very nice when they are alone, and my
dog is splendid all the time, and I have done nothing to earn that. I love my
dog.
One more dog. Roofdog lives on top of a church. I’m not sure
what denomination of Christianity, maybe Catholic, but their enthusiasm makes
me think otherwise. But the roof of this building, where Roofdog lives, is
flat, black, and probably only comfortable for the last two weeks of September
and the first two of October.
Brianna and I were driving through rural Wisconsin on
Friday, and a conservative man on the AM radio was talking about how American
liberals love to condemn Christians for crimes real, imagined, and ancient, but
they will never say a mean word about a Muslim, even after a man of such and
such Islamic background is in the news. He was reporting from Berkeley, CA. You
know Berkeley, where the acid is still in the water and old punks and older hippies
and expensive colleges live? Anyway, the usual is said. Scandalous statements
on both sides. We listen to the radio and I reach the immature conclusion, as
usual, that religious fervor of all kind is bad business for the general
populace. Probably I’m wrong and I don’t care exactly your opinion this,
really, I’m just showing you the timeline of my thought process. Radio,
politics, religion, injustice, Roofdog.
Roofdog, who howls at everything below him, which I hate,
but who I instantly forgive because, really, what else can he do? His owner
locks him on a roof all day, and his life is hell.
Roofdog, you live in a city on a hill and we can all see you
barking at us. I bet you are hungry and thirsty and in need of love.
Who is so cruel that they keep you exposed to the elements
all day, no tree to hide under, etc?
It is known that the kingdom of heaven is not for dogs, and
yet your owner rubs your face in this. Cruel. Sometimes I’ll think, I’ll write
a letter or call animal control on those jags who lock their dog out on days
hot and rainy. Then I think, how about you volunteer for something useful to
your fellow Chicagoan instead, you lazy ass? Or maybe even write in your
journal instead of reading your Twitterfeed and the headlines. Pay the blessed
electric bill instead of drawing on it.
And that is my letter for today, which is Sunday.
