Dog Time
Dog Poo
If you are depressed you have a little black dog. However, sadly, my dog is white, therefore I must be happy. Very happy, in fact. Have you ever wondered how little black dogs describe having a depression?
Once upon a time, in a life long lost, I knew a girl who postulated that white dogs did white poos and darker dogs eliminated darker substances. Not being overly knowledgeable about the welfare of dogs’ digestive systems, I was easily convinced by her. Of course this might have been more related to her being a rather attractive blond. And also that blond was probably the color that best described her own eliminations.
But it’s the blond that is the hair of the dog that I want to talk about today.
Being a devout follower of tedium, you may already be aware of my fantastically tortuous method of preparing meals. In the war against convenience I not only do not buy grated cheese, but I do not even buy the cheese-grater. I grate with a knife, cutting one fine sliver of cheese at a time.
And I do this with everything. Why? Well I’m surrounded by a people who have found a million ways to save time, yet in this tremendous rush to death never seem to have any .
So I don’t want to save time; I want to take time. What are you supposed to do with the time you save anyway? Cash it in like Green Shield Stamps?
Well the dog has brought a similar happiness to life. Moodily - and happily so, I feel I must emphasize - dressing in dark clothing mostly of wool, I find myself not only covered in hairs, but I am completely enmeshed in them. It’s as if they have knitted themselves into my wool wear.
But why happiness you ask? Well if I were simply coverd in hairs I could merely grab some tape - scotch, sello, duct, masking, electric - and apply it until not a hair remained. Once upon a time in a life lost before my earlier lost life, I watched a woman do this very successfully to her fine-knit skirt of clinging black wool. Entranced, I just about managed to get the words out where I pointed out to her - helpfully, I felt - that many people would be very willing to pay money to watch her do this. Broke as I was, she continued until the last of her blond hairs was removed. Free of charge.
No it’s not the wonderful memory that I am presently grateful to the dog for - though that is a pleasant bonus - no, it’s the time it takes me to manually de-hair my clothing.
A less patient artist would probably switch their wardrobe to a paler variety, perhaps white itself, and thereby in an instant seem so much happier to the world and indeed with the world. But it would be fraudulent. A Theory of Happiness based on colour and camoflage.
I however, could not be happier. Dressing still in black and navy, or for those frivolous nights, a very dark purple, I first get to spend three to four hours hand-plucking individually little white hairs from between the stitches. We choose our tediums. And if everybody else did this there wouldn’t be any wars. Or prostitution.
Oh look, there’s a white poo on the white carpet.
See Things That Are Oh So Nearly Related:
• Cartoon: madra : dog
• Conversation: Cats
• Conversation: Number One
• Cartoon: áisiúil : convenient
• How Do You Find America?
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