dog days of march

The big and otherwise gregarious dog is smoking on the porch again.  It's at the end of a long dog day in a month that is full of dogs, and the dogs are still lining up in their dog cars to go to their dog homes and the dog is sitting on the porch and smoking.  It's not his house.  That's important.  It's not his house.  He doesn't live there, but he does right now, but it's only to take care of a smaller dog, one who is learning dog tricks to perform in the dog world.

The dog is smoking.  The dog is smoking in a brooding kind of manner, almost like the dog dylan crying dog, maybe too much like that dog, maybe he needs new dog models, but it fits ok.  He does have the dog motorcycle, and he has crashed it, so it's ok in his own dog myth to tell these stories, some of them look the same.  There's a Sara Dog, too, of course there is. 

"Of course there is," the smoking dog thinks. 

The dog is thinking about how this day started well before this morning, and it unrolled from there, where at every turn, while he was trying to find the right song to listen to on his dog player,  the one about lying down low and being forgotten, he was hounded, yes, that, hounded by a handful of other kinds of dramas that really didn't involve him.  He is thinking how he was asked for thoughts in every situation, and the thoughts led to more invitations for more thoughts, and he didn't have very many of those, because he is a goddam dog and needs to not be thinking too much. 

"These are simply puzzles, and ones that don't need me in any way," the brooding dog says, almost to himself, almost as an afterthought.  Dog then burns himself on dog cigar, his thumb not meant to smoke, because it is not a thumb, because dogs do not have thumbs.

Dog is deeply concerned, and there are furrows on the hair on his face, and he thinks how if it rained, if it flooded, his face would be like a field that would map the places he and the Sara Dog have gone on the dog motorcycle, and how there were more places than either of them had ever suspected to still see, but that's so far in the future it makes him even sadder than he already is, and he is a sad dog. 

Dog is deeply concerned, because of the history of dogs that has written on everydog's body.  He is feeling like he is nothing more and nothing less than a collection of dog texts, dog religion, dog love, dog genderplay, dog economics, and the terrible things that are happening to some dogs who wear doghoods in their dog neighborhoods.  He is thinking about how he has spent more than a countable number of years (times seven for dog time, the number of the sea, seven, sea dog time), trying to unfold and uncomplicate and recomplicate all of these dog narratives, and throwing away the trappings of the ones that are not useful for this dog point in dog time, and still he is stuck in the middle of another web of narratives, and forced to play dog games that he is so very wary of.  It's exhausting being in dog culture, and there are harder things still.

This is a very whiny dog.

The dog who is whiny doesn't care for criticism of himself at the moment.  He is smoking a cigar under the moon and dreaming about a SaraDog, but he is impatiently turning codes over in his doghead.  This would be easy if there weren't codes, but it wouldn't be worth it.  On the one hand, in dog religion, where there are many dogs and many dog faces, there are structures of power that are difficult to negotiate, even in dog terms, even in the cult of natural dog religion, the one that practices the things that go back to the dogroots.  And dogs today are both traditional and modern, and ritual codes have to be enacted even through cell phones, even with their clumsy dog hands.  And there are dogsex differences, too, that need to be taken into consideration, especially when they enact themselves in dog genderplay, and they always do, because dog genderplay is always a part of the text, because they are always standing in dog history.  And for the codes of doglove, he thinks about all his dogfriends who are going through dogheart troubles, and he cares enough to get upset, but they don't do anything, they just can't touch him in this place, on this porch, because this porch is every porch, and the porch is where dogs fall in love, and the tiny beatings of his dogheart are so bittersweet that he blows dogsmoke to dogstars and says, "Even if it hurts, I am so grateful that I am a goddam dog."


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