. . . and I could pick up on its dreams.
I got sensitive feet that way.
Mostly liver treats-related content-not really my thing.
But one night, this dog dreamed up an abiding solution to the Problem of Finite Happiness,
which was this vanishing thing in those days,
but this dog had it all figured out, and it just couldn’t write it down
‘cause dog paws don’t write so good.
Yeah.
Just figured it all out somewhere in the nonstop festival of liver treats porn.
Now,
I’m receiving the dreams,
I could write it all out for you,
I could pass it off as my own genius, even.
Publish a series of self-help books.
Make a mint off of people’s striving, middlebrow perfectionist dreams of respectability and contentment-the usual dumbfuck American shit.
‘Cept, this time, I got the goods.
All laid out pretty simple in the dreams of a liver treat-crazed mutt.
But . . . there’s just one problem with all this.
My day job,
and I should say right now that I’m self-employed
My day job
consists of clamping my shudderingly intricate mouthparts onto Gaia’s neck and sucking and sucking and sucking and sucking
filling my legion bellies with-you guessed it-the Happiness of this Life.
And I like my day job.
I’m my own boss.
Which is tight.
But this dog came into my life, and I dunno if anybody else has got receptive feet like mine so they can read the dog’s dreams . . . and it’s not so easy to just, like, kill a cute doggo.
And in a world of mindless motherfuckery,
where the most intelligent species on the planet only knows how to murder, enslave, and profit from the emptiness of their own hearts,
here’s a dumbshit canine
that fuckin’ gets it,
-so, how could I kill the one truly insightful living being on the planet?
And it’s a dog.
It won’t live that long.
Maybe another fifteen years at the outside.
And then I can take it to the veterinarian, give it the smooth glide into oblivion.
A perfectly sweet way for a dog of some years and service to make its exit.
And,
you know,
if,
like,
there are no veterinarians once the Happiness Crash comes down and nobody feels up to doing much of anything besides marching dutifully into the Hellmouth of Guernicus upon the Day of Decision,
well,
I think I would be up to twisting pupper’s neck just so.
I’m a pretty hard-boiled character.
I can work if I have to, I just don’t believe in punching the ticket of someone I actually respect any earlier than necessary is all.
Guess I just gotta keep doggo close.
Keep your friends close-which, you know, I don’t have any friends-
but keep your enemies closer-and I got plenty of those-
I mean,
I suppose it’s more like I’m the Enemy. The Enemy Ultimate. That type of deal.
So everywhere I go-I’m the Enemy of Humanity. Gaia’s Supreme Tormentor. The Herald of the Maw of Guernicus. Uh . . . just a bunch of stupid shit, ‘cause it’s all really just the one gig, but there’s all this terminology makes it sound so precious. Which is fine.
If you want Enemies, you gotta be an Enemy first, right?
Something like that.
Keep my (non-existent) friends close.
But keep my enemies closer-easy enough.
And keep that supersmart doggo dreaming away at my feet.
It works out.
