The Simple Truth About Bears and Dogs

Tonight I walked home in the company of a 3-legged dog.
Not only was he possessed of only 3 legs, he was scruffy too. Scruffy in that natural, unintended way, like Brad Pitt in A River Runs Through It.…or homeless people!
Born scruffy.

The woman who appeared to be his was walking a few paces ahead of us, and looked back often to urge him on. Let me be clear about this, though: her urgings were not endearing–they were the urgings of a woman who has urged long, and urged often. Indifferent. Without enthusiasm.
At these points the dog and I would glance at each other in understanding:
‘I don’t know why you bother…’ my eyes said.
‘She feeds me.’ his eyes replied.
I had no answer for that.

Interestingly, the woman wore a sort of patently-faux fur jacket. It flared out a ruler’s length or so beyond her supreme motherass, giving her the look of a dog shuffling slowly mid-air. Or maybe the effect was more that of a bear; she was, after all, bipedal.

Every so often the dog would pause–his entire body undulating with heavy breaths. He’d look about as if to ask why we were all going so fast, and then gear himself up again, limping even faster now to catch up with the bear what feeds him.
In these moments I wanted to scoop him up in my arms and kiss him and tell him how perfect he is–but I know my place. Instead I walked on past him and the bearfrau, towards my flat.

Walking through the hallway of my building I noticed a sign handwritten on masking tape and stuck on one of the little doors-in-the-wall that make up the post boxes. The tape read: ‘hincapié’; the spanish word for support. That’s all we need, isn’t it? A little support.

In the eyes of a 3-legged dog I read the simple truth:
No matter who we are, or what we’re dealing with, we’d all like to have a woman dressed like a bear take us home and feed us. And a tree to piss on.
No wait! I think I wasn’t supposed to read that far into the dogs eyes…shit.

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