Dear Sir or Madam—

Do you know who I am? Am I as much a part of your day, as you mine? I run past your gate nearly every day—at alternating times, as it is, but nearly every day. Whatever I may be thinking, be pondering, be musing, you take me right out of it. Your great woooooof!s boom through me like the deep gong.

Your great fur sloshes as you charge up for another boom—and another, and another, and another, until I’m fast around the corner bend and out of your vicinity. I wonder what goes through your mind. Perhaps dopamine? Feeling as if you have, once again, saved those in your care from the deadly potential that is the blue-shoed blur?

I used to be frustrated. By the jabs, the stabs—you don’t even know me, after all, why do you scare me away like that? I used to be offended, but now: now I look forward to our socializing. You and your gong are one of three stable things in my life. It should be a sorry day indeed without you behind the wire gate.

My admiration-

Dear Grey-Shoes—

I know you. Of course I know you. You smell like cat hair on wool sweater armpit.

You overestimate how quickly you run. You are no “blur”. You are no “potential danger”. You are molasses danger. Nothing blurry. I see you. You are clear. I have no danger tolerance. Do not take it personal. I scare away cars. Grasshoppers. Leaves. All things. I am Mastadon. I have named myself. Others call me “Guard Dog”, “Destroyer of Worlds”, “Good-Boy”, “Pookie”, or “Richard”.

I must admit. When I bark at you, I feel alive. I can’t explain. I must admit. When I bark at anything, I feel alive. You are not special.

I accept your admiration. I admire you for fleeing when I bark at you. Good job. Very good.



1 Comment on “Correspondence with the Guardian

  1. Pingback: Cheer Setting – the Hydrogen Jukebox

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