monkeybutt

A man and his dog are walking in the park. The man is carrying peanuts to feed to any birds he might happen to see. He is wearing a green bowler hat. The dog is smoking a cigar. He has no hat. The pond they are passing is green with the algae of lost years. The sky is grey like dull silver. The trees are skeletal and bare, and a cool wind blows.

Say there, old boy, got change for a dime? says the dog to a passing pigeon. The pigeon shits on the mans hat, squawks happily, and flies off to its nest. The dog begins to shriek in a high, warbling voice, a voice the color of decay. Others strolling through the park turn their heads, as if to see a crack in the world. The dogs death is nigh.

The man looks down at his companion, startled. The dog is flopping back and forth on the path. His cigar is smoldering a few feet away, forgotten. The man kneels down and strokes the dogs head. Tears run down the mans face as he remembers happier times. A drop of rain strikes the path softly as the dogs movements cease.

Somewhere in the city, a woman sighs as she gazes into her bathroom mirror. Her smile is not as dazzling as when she was a young girl. Her eyes are not as bright. She sees failure looking back at her from the glass, but she is not surprised. This is how she was told it would be.