Long Walks Off Short Piers

The sky looked like caramel tastes, its remaining light divested amongst the lower reaches of the horizon, mixing a stubborn, lingering hue of dark magenta that even now coalesced its sweetness into the muddy brown further up. Surely monstrous night would soon gulp it down, smacking its lips in glee, sucking every last scintilla of honey from it before swiping a hairy hand across its maw, releasing a burst of stars and a sudden belch of moon.

But Jack Stratton had little time for such considerations, and less inclination to regard it, should he unexpectedly hit the awareness lottery and stop long enough to take a look. In fact, Jack’s sentience could prance on the same high fashion runway with Britney Spears’ grasp of motherhood and Rush Limbaugh’s tolerance for liberals, lost in its own particular brand of insouciance and never once showing a glimmer of recognition toward anything outside its blinder-restricted field of vision. In fact, as cameras clicked and the shadowy forms of Pierre Cardin and Coco Chanel leaned this way or that to make comment to a toady or underling, Jack might think he’d merely zigged where he should have zagged and, what the hell, all roads eventually lead to Rome, don’t they?

Jack chuffed sluggishly, watching closely the pair of gray squirrels sprinting across the top of his fence. If his furry friends dared to appear this close to evening, even in his current befogged lethargy, Jack Stratton would remind them, yet again, that this yard is his, and he neither appreciated nor tolerated trespassers.  Scofflaws, that’s what they are… they just don’t respect the natural order of things. 

These days, the expended effort hardly seemed worth the trouble.  After all, he’d never once really come close to catching either of the tormenters… somewhere in their rodent make-up they possessed a unique escape ability.  Chasing them away became more a matter of principle than an actual security breech.  Besides, he tipped his water bowl over earlier this morning and David wouldn’t be home before dark.  Perpetual panting helped a little, but if he were destined to die of thirst, it would be in the exercise of a more noble cause— or at least something along the lines of his job description. No one short of a human stranger or stray cat would incite Jack Stratton to action here, in the gloaming. Summer’s a bitch (you’ll kindly pardon the canine pun… he had no other frame of reference).

Perhaps, after dark, David would lower the tailgate on the pickup and take Jack Stratton for a ride, allowing him to place his paws on the top rail and bark incessantly at each passing object. The warm breeze in his face never failed to refresh and exhilarate him, urging him to his frenzied expression of dogdom’s finest hour.

But for now, Jack Stratton single-mindedly laid his head upon his front paws and closed his eyes, waiting for the passage of time or the sound of an intruder.  He’d do his job, but nothing else would be allowed to disrupt his dolor for so much as a tail-wag.  Summer’s a bitch…