2006-03-15 - 12:00 a.m.
A Moment in Time
�She�s gone Cyril.�
We watch her walk away from the window. We watch her disappear into the horizon. She could have taken the car but decided to walk instead. She wanted her own moment in time. We both stay where we are because we want to be right there when she returns.
The seconds seem to have become moments lasting minutes.
If one listens without distraction then one can hear the system confining the new global community within its web. Of course I am stoned so it might just be the dog panting next to me.
�What now?�
He speaks to me in his native, slobbery tongue. My face becomes moist with his drool. A droplet falls from its point of origin on my chin. I stare at him. I glance at the spot of drool on my cheap shirt then look back at him. He turns his head to the side as if trying to comprehend the moment. I do not even try to explain it to him since I do not even understand what it is from one moment to the next.
I start thinking about all of his nicknames. All of them just a small piece of our affection for him. With his enormous tongue as the ultimate hindrance, he cannot even say one consisting of two syllables: Crack Head. That handle owes its genesis to the fact that the dog has attributes seen in your garden variety (if such a garden exists) crack head, minus the insatiable drive for crack. Such reverence places him into a long line of dogs over the course of my life with the last name of Head. My childhood dog was known as Pin Head. My adolescent dog was called Block Head.
Crack Head is my first dog. I went into the pet store with my wife and we scanned each animal then we told the clerk we would take the brown one. At this moment, Crack Head and I are but two pieces coexisting in a crappy two-bedroom rental house with a dirt backyard so the interior is caked with dust for six days out of the week.
We dust on the Sabbath.
