(Lyrics by Esme)
A horrible thought just occurred to me.
You know how dogs sleep? Usually with their feet skipping along, to accompanying mini-yips. It’s really cute.
But then I realized: We assume a dog is having a pleasant dream when we see that. Perhaps images of untrodden fields and unsniffed anuses.
Yet my dog never acts that way when she’s awake. I’ve never seen her yip playfully when she runs. Shit, I’ve never heard her bark. Esme would have made a great mime; she’s already got the whiteface.
What if she (and her canine brethren) are actually having nightmares when they’re yipping and skittering along the dream circuit? What if dogs are actually picturing Buick-sized cats and electrified fire hydrants? What if Fido is actually calling out for help: Please, wake me from this hell! I have a memory that lasts 15 seconds; not only will I forgive it — I’ll forget it before I fall back asleep. PLEASE HAVE MERCY!
So I’m going to go on Amazon and buy an air horn. When I see her nodding off, I’ll just gently hold the button and BBBBRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPPP!!!!! No more bad dreams.
You’re welcome, honey.
And now, beloved bitches, a non-alternative Factslap:
The view of the western skyline from my backyard skyline isn’t exactly spectacular.
There’s one palm tree. The neighborhood is embroidered by the L.A. River Basin, better known for hosting rebels without causes and terminators without pauses than for an actual tributary that runs 48 miles start to finish.
It’s in an area my resale-conscious neighbors — even my best friend — have taken to calling Lake Balboa, though it’s really Van Nuys.
Hell, let’s be honest. It’s The Valley. America’s sweat stain. Porn’s Vatican City. Our largest exports are porn and anal sex. It is smog-choked and traffic-strangled and beastly overgrown and…then. Right around 5:30.
The light catches right.
Or a creature turns bright.
And across the cement river there is a house full of kids. Or a daycare center. Or a park. It’s too fenced and green to see.
But not too beastly overgrown to hear: laughing and shouting and screamingtoheaven simply because their young lungs allow it.
My music mixes with their laughter, and Esme gets in the mood to fetch, and I get in the mood to throw.
And suddenly…It’s not Lake Balboa, or Van Nuys, or Weedville, or Porn City. It’s not even smog-choked.
I take it back, what I said about that backyard perch.
It’s a pretty spectacular view.