Every day I mosey my lazy butt down to that Zen guy’s gussied up garden and rest my nerves. They’re shot from listening to my human person talk endlessly about Mr. Darcy coming to dinner. I don’t know whether I’m in a sitcom or a romance novel. My life doesn’t feel like it’s my own. If I had my way, I’d be living next to the lily pond, one paw over the side, and an eye cocked to watch the fish swim by. I sound like a poet, slinging rhyming words together and settling myself in the beauty of nature where everything has a smell that speaks to me in words. That’s where the poet comes in. I can’t help myself. Too bad no one can hear me.

Although, just now, when wishing I had a small pallet to lay under my tired body and seconds later Zen Guy offers me a canvas thing soft as a down comforter, I say, “Thanks, Z. Dawg.” And he answers, “You’re welcome.” Wonders never cease, this poor dog has found a friend who understands him. I gotta reassess my limited world view and consider anew.

I ain’t really the brainless moron HP tells herself I am. I know a thing or two about humans they don’t even know themselves. For instance, the idiocy of their creating super babies in China is gonna knock even your one percent brainy types down a peg or two where they’ll be working for these super babies same as dogs do for the current human model. I ask myself how dumb would a person have to be to create something to replace themselves. I thought they had gone too far with artificial intelligence. It’s a dog gone mindboggling shame they don’t acknowledge it’s best to keep all beings equal, including your loyal canine.

When they find themselves locked in cages next to us dogs waiting to be let out to work for the man doing service dog stuff and running through fires to save the super babies, it’ll dawn on them they ain’t the smartest animal in the zoo. The old light bulb will go off, and they will ask themselves, “What were we thinking?”

I am a silent poet with a dog’s world view and a nose for sniffing beauty. Meanwhile, Z. Dawg turns rocks into turquoise, suspends them in fancy gold hardware, and hangs them from a clothes line strung across the back porch. Rich people come by once in a while and pay a fortune for his baubles. I heard him tell a fancy customer a hundred thousand is too much but she deposits her check in a makeshift wooden box marked donations. “Nothing’s too much for you, baby.” Z. Dawg looked confused. Later I saw him tear the check in two and throw it on the compost heap. I nearly grabbed it myself thinking that’s a lotta dog food but guess he had his pride. Although, being Zen and all, he might not have wanted to be bought by money. If this old dog made money doing tricks and stuff, I’d buy myself some freedom with it.

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