The Desperate Artist: DVDs and Dead Dogs

I was in no mood to do anything after Nadal lost Wimbledon.  Normally I don’t let these things get me down, but for some reason I did this time.  I did this time.  No tto much though.  I talked to my friend Martín who asked me over to watch a lousy comedy from the 1990s which was funny in parts and funny on other parts but less funny to not all in a lot of others.    It was a nice evening to watch a movie in.  It had been nice for a couple of days.  I went home later and was in bed by one.  That was all right with me.  I could open the wondows wide open and let the air flow in.  It basted my body every few minutes or so.  I nodded off only to be woken by the sound of a wailing dog.  It took me a while to figure it out it was a dog crying out…or even a dog…or even crying out.  It just sounded like an animal complaining about something and the only thing that bothered me was that it was keeping me half awake and that no one was doing anything about it.  Until someone did.  I swear.  Someone did.  I heard a dog killed tonight.  Either it had been put out of its misery or been put in too much from the beginning.  I don’t know.  All of the sudden it just yelped extra loud once or twice more and then everything was silent.  I couldn’t tell you because I am sure I haven’t bothered to listen to enough suffering in the world in my life, in the world in my life, but I would swear that the death of a dog must be among the saddest on earth.  Let me capitalize that.  On Earth. 

      It’s the price I must pay for leaving my windows open.  It must be. 

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