Dog Thoughts Between 3 & 4

You snort #3 off a glass picture frame and stare at the final 2, beneath which you see good old Zanbo. You loved that damn dog. You wonder about doggy heaven. Do they have his favorite treats, and who scratches that mole behind his left ear? He always brought the Frisbee back, no matter how far you flung it. Thing could catch a thermal wind and glide clear into the next county, but you bet bottom dollar Zanbo'd bring it back, next day if need be. Your new dog, fucking mutt trots over to the Frisbee and just stands there. Sniffs it. Wanders off to piss or shit. No Zanbo at all. Sometimes you want to pick up that new mutt and chuck it over the fence, out into the woods, aim for that big pine with the woodpecker; maybe the mutt'll crack its empty skull and die on the spot, give them skinny night deer something to gnaw on. You can barely hear it trying to bark from the cage. Yeah, that's right. Trying. You found yourself some black duct tape to match that snout fur and clamped its mouth up good. Zanbo never barked at nothing. Hundred neighbors could be strolling by the window—each one leashing a dog, and not a peep from old Zanbo. But this new mutt, sees a damn palmetto bug on a blade of grass and has a conniption fit, barking louder than a porn queen's final moans before the money shot. At a bug. Scared of vermin. Good for nothing pussy dog, you know that's truth. And then it dawns on you that all them college philosophical types were wrong, things do change because shit dies and nothing comes back to you. Ain't no soul recycling, dumbass dip-nozzles. “Oh, Zanbo, sweet Zanbo,” you say, “this line's for you.”

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