Part III: The Hero in Repose
Young with feeble paws and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Mournful tuba in that darkness,
He is lifted up and strengthened.
Listen to this simple story,
Listen to this Song of Griffey!
Follow here the tame beast's rambles
Through cracked pavement streets of city,
Where the lawns with grass blade-mangled
Bear the fruit of Griffey's squattings.
See his droppings now age-whitened,
Like some strange digestive graveyard,
Bits of paper, plastic, fabric
Wretched diet of his choosing.
Griffey has stolen the stocking
From the bin that holds soiled garments,
Leaves its stitchings wrought asunder
Like the Great Bear of the mountains,
Rips foam stuffing from the mattress,
mighty Grendel tearing tendrils.
There he lay asleep and cumbrous
Peasant rests on blankets squalid.
With apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, who called his terrier Trap the "last and greatest of all the dogs."
Sometimes I dream that I'm sitting in the back of the defunct Weinermobile as it careens driverless down the highway. At first I thought this was symbolic of the powerlessness I feel in life, but then I realized it's actually the Weinermobile's dream of being able to drive again.
Three years ago, when we were burying my uncle, Cleaver and some gross lady dog (Solstice???) showed up at the cemetery and starting going at it really loudly. It ruined everything and we had to have a "re-do" the next day and it cost a fortune. I've hated him ever since for that.
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