There’s a story in my head of a man---I think the man was me---who got sick of making his own decisions. He was sulking at home contemplating his worries one day and his Scottish sheepdog came to bother him for a walk.
At that very moment he made a bold---some would say rash---decision. He deputized all his decision-making to his dog, Melba.
He set out across the Nebraskan countryside, the dog’s thick leather leash wrapped around his arm. Nicked and peeling, but still a strong leash, working its way deeper into the skin of his arm with each tug of his guide.
For two months he continued. He ate what it ate, slept where it slept, shat where it shat. It was a lot of fun actually. Of course Scottish sheepdogs are well known for their herding abilities, and Melba was a credit to her lineage.
He had a purpose out there, sleeping in cornfields and railyards. He was trying to blow off his destiny. He was trying to trick his own fate by pitting it against pure instinct.
Needless to say, it didn’t work out for him. He knew it wouldn’t, but he had to try. The dog ate some mushrooms at the base of an old oak tree. The man knew the mushrooms were poisonous and he couldn’t bring himself to eat the deadly amanitas, which he knew from his youth to never touch.
A fire built near the site of the dog’s death. Shoveling like a beast with his fingers, a shallow pit dug into the moist post-rain soil. The dog buried under the forgetting earth, tears shed into my bread as I ate.
What do I care about memories, anyway? I think as I wipe my ass. Memories are vestigial. I’ve got no need for them. They’re an appendix and better to get rid of them than wait around until they get infected and do some damage.
At that very moment he made a bold---some would say rash---decision. He deputized all his decision-making to his dog, Melba.
He set out across the Nebraskan countryside, the dog’s thick leather leash wrapped around his arm. Nicked and peeling, but still a strong leash, working its way deeper into the skin of his arm with each tug of his guide.
For two months he continued. He ate what it ate, slept where it slept, shat where it shat. It was a lot of fun actually. Of course Scottish sheepdogs are well known for their herding abilities, and Melba was a credit to her lineage.
He had a purpose out there, sleeping in cornfields and railyards. He was trying to blow off his destiny. He was trying to trick his own fate by pitting it against pure instinct.
Needless to say, it didn’t work out for him. He knew it wouldn’t, but he had to try. The dog ate some mushrooms at the base of an old oak tree. The man knew the mushrooms were poisonous and he couldn’t bring himself to eat the deadly amanitas, which he knew from his youth to never touch.
A fire built near the site of the dog’s death. Shoveling like a beast with his fingers, a shallow pit dug into the moist post-rain soil. The dog buried under the forgetting earth, tears shed into my bread as I ate.
What do I care about memories, anyway? I think as I wipe my ass. Memories are vestigial. I’ve got no need for them. They’re an appendix and better to get rid of them than wait around until they get infected and do some damage.
No comments:
Post a Comment