Saturday, 1 August 2015


He's loving all the attention, the hairy tube of a dog at Esther's this morning. Recently I've been writing short prose bits in which a dog thinks this and does that. A different dog each time, I suppose, though I'm the one wagging. Anything such as the previous sentence I might say about this writing requires more thought than the writing itself has ever carried.
Restaurants and  cafes in Kelowna often feature bowls of water for the mutts. Signs warn us not to leave mutts in cars. No dog in either of those scenarios interests me, really, as much as the dog I insert into my dream of being arrested, the dog that sniffs me sleeping at the beach, the dog not lucky but Leckie (a street leading off the highway here). Dogs with names like Papyrus, Phony, or Grandma. A lousy play is said to be a dog, as is a lazy worker.
So yes, here's to the work crew at the courthouse in Regina who shovel without bending, who stand around in shadows, who stroll around to the front.

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