I And My Dog

I AND MY DOG

I LOOKED at the dog. The dog looked at me.

I looked at the dog, and the dog looked at me. As I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog as the dog looked at me. As I was looking at the dog, the dog was looking at me. As I was looking at the dog, the dog looked at me. As I looked at the dog, the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog while the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog as the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog as the dog was looking at me. The dog looked at me, and I looked at it. The dog looked over at me, and I looked back at it. The dog was looking at me, and I looked at it.

When I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog when the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog when the dog began looking at me. I looked at the dog all the while the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog when I noticed it looking at me. I was looking at the dog when I noticed it was looking at me. I was looking at the dog looking at me when I began to tremble in fear. I saw the dog looking at me. I saw the dog, and the dog saw me. I saw that the dog saw me. I saw that the dog saw me, and the dog saw that I saw it. I could see the dog, and the dog could see me. I noticed the dog watching me. I watched the dog eyeing me. I noticed the dog eyeing me up and down. I noticed the dog sizing me up. I measured the dog. I stared at that damned dog for what must have been hours, and it returned my stare. I glanced at the dog out of the corner of my eye, hoping it would look away. I looked at the dog because the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog because I thought that perhaps it liked me. I looked at the dog for what must have been hours, perhaps days or weeks, a full year even, and finally, in desperation, I turned my head away in shame. I looked at the dog and watched it age. I grow old watching dogs looking at me.

My whole entire life has been one long stare-down with dogs I want nothing to do with. If that goddam son-of-a-bitching mutt keeps looking at me for one more minute, I'm going to kick the living shit out of it.

I looked at the dog; the dog looked at me. I have looked at the dog; the dog has looked at me. I have looked at the dog looking at me. I have looked at the dog studying me. I have studied the dog looking at me. I have studied the dog studying me. I and my dog have something in common. Just now, I looked at the dog, and the dog looked away. I looked at the dog forgivingly, and the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog tenderly, and the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog longingly, and the dog looked at me. I have wanted to embrace the dog as a lover, but the dog just looked at me coldly. I took a step toward the dog, but the dog did not move. I took another step, and the dog growled. I looked at the dog for a long time until the dog, which had been lying down, got up and stretched. I sat on a chair not ten feet from the dog and took out a pencil and paper. I began to sketch the dog. The dog looked at me, and I thought I could faintly detect a smile. I moved my stare to the dog's tail. I looked at the dog's hind legs. I looked at the dog's front legs. All the while, the dog looked at me. I looked at the paws, calloused from days, months, years, of pacing. I looked at the dog's ears, its wet nose, its panting tongue, canine teeth, the dull, vacant, brown eyes. I smelled the dog, and the dog looked at me. I looked deep into the eyes of the dog--man's best friend--and wondered if this one particular dog--this one member of Canis familiaris ever wondered about stuff, ever wondered about the Socratic lie that the unexamined life is not worth living. This dog before me, blood rushing through its veins and arteries, heart and lungs pumping precious unexamined life, its breath stinking with each unexamined breath, this dog looking at me looking at it with rapture, with wonder, with awe and disgust. This one particular dog, never once in its unexamined life ever considering the suicide option, this dog with its legs galloping in dream-sleep on the cool, shady summer patio, this irreplaceable citizen of the planet, this being with whom I've shared so much of my life--looking at me, looking at it, looking up together in silent turmoil into the blue sky--the beautiful, best-color blue sky. In celebration, in thanksgiving, in anger and frustration at the cosmic joke.

Am I really looking at the dog? Does the dog exist anywhere but as a piece of my own demented, fragmented, twisted, warped and lacerated, perverse, sublime imagination? And vice versa?

I look at the dog; I look at the dog. The dog stretches again, and I look at the dog. It prepares to leave, and I look at the dog. I look at the dog, and the dog yawns, and its tongue curls up around the edges and then disappears back inside as the dog closes its mouth. I look at the dog. I continue to look at the dog. I sadly look at the dog, and the dog looks at me. The dog begins to walk away, and I look at the dog, and the dog looks at me, and I look at the dog. Walking and looking back over its shoulder, the dog looks at me, and I look at the dog, and the dog keeps walking; and the dog keeps living. And I keep looking; and I keep living; and the dog keeps living; and I keep looking.