He is in full command of his fleet. He is the captain of his ship. He leads the dogs from one sidewalk to another making the whole ordeal appear as orderly and artistic as a canine version of Abbey Road.
As Dwight and his omegas reach the double yellow line, a bright red car with flames emblazoned on the side speeds through the intersection, ignoring the red light, demonstrating a complete disregard for basic traffic laws, sending the dogs into disarray.
Barks fly out of their throats like flying fish, flopping awkwardly in the air. They leap like waves into the sides of Dwights legs, rocking him like a ship in choppy waters. Their eyes dart from side to side as if they were lost at sea and surrounded by jagged fins circling in the current. The dogs run this way and that. Lines tangle, and Dwight finds himself tied down in the road like Andromeda waiting for the Kraken to breach. He needs more balance, better footwork, quicker reflexes, a third arm, but he doesn't have any of those things that a captain needs. The ship's wheel spins out of control, and he fears going down with it.
As the light turns green, Dwight scuttles over the curb like a wounded crab, his dogs clinging to him like the frail legs of a crustacean, their fur speckled in oily dirt. He wonders if he can get them back to their owners scrubbed clean, not barking, and on time. He begins to undo the maze of leashes and notices the grimy stain that now sits in the middle of his Bill Cosby sweater. Walking dogs was supposed to be easy, even fun. A ruined holiday sweater and grooming costs for a dozen dogs are not Dwight's idea of fun. In fact, these things give him stress. He looks down the road and shakes an angry fist at the red car that brought him such pain, whose license plate reads CHSN-ONE, only, to the people around him, Dwight's fist appears comical--and they laugh from behind their newspapers, sipping coffee, critiquing things they've never done.
Barks fly out of their throats like flying fish, flopping awkwardly in the air. They leap like waves into the sides of Dwights legs, rocking him like a ship in choppy waters. Their eyes dart from side to side as if they were lost at sea and surrounded by jagged fins circling in the current. The dogs run this way and that. Lines tangle, and Dwight finds himself tied down in the road like Andromeda waiting for the Kraken to breach. He needs more balance, better footwork, quicker reflexes, a third arm, but he doesn't have any of those things that a captain needs. The ship's wheel spins out of control, and he fears going down with it.
As the light turns green, Dwight scuttles over the curb like a wounded crab, his dogs clinging to him like the frail legs of a crustacean, their fur speckled in oily dirt. He wonders if he can get them back to their owners scrubbed clean, not barking, and on time. He begins to undo the maze of leashes and notices the grimy stain that now sits in the middle of his Bill Cosby sweater. Walking dogs was supposed to be easy, even fun. A ruined holiday sweater and grooming costs for a dozen dogs are not Dwight's idea of fun. In fact, these things give him stress. He looks down the road and shakes an angry fist at the red car that brought him such pain, whose license plate reads CHSN-ONE, only, to the people around him, Dwight's fist appears comical--and they laugh from behind their newspapers, sipping coffee, critiquing things they've never done.
Once again, the photo credit goes to Langston.
1 comments:
"critiquing things they've never done". Great line / observation.
October 29, 2010 at 8:43 AMPost a Comment