Please don't speak too loudly. Luco doesn't know I'm on here. He left his blog logged on (it's kind of funny - I just saw a tweet he did about not doing that), so here I am, after coming upon it quite innocently. I mean, I was just trying lie on the couch while the dog is out for a walk.
Why the italics?
Luco sometimes discusses his ill will for the dog, and so perhaps you've thought to yourself, ah, now there's a feline who abhors another animal. Not so, reader; please allow me to disabuse you of that idea. Luco's sentiment doesn't even touch mine; if his loathing is a puddle on the street, mine is all the oceans worth.
Do you know what it's like to live with the dog? Do you want to know? Let me give you a list: The dog
1) owns the living room apparently, and will not suffer me to enter it,
2) eviscerates small, squeaky toys that often rather look and sound like me,
3) has an odd shaped, evil little head - his forehead alone is enough to fill me with revulsion (and I'm not usually such an aesthetic fascist!),
4) comes into my room and barks a horrible, shrill sound, hoping to drive me mad,
5) offers me no end of torment; if I try to scuttle into the kitchen, he is at me, teeth gnashing, horrible forehead in pursuit, tiny deer legs slipping on the laminate,
6) once, in a deeply phlegmatic tone of voice, he told me that I would be good "for eating because your soft fur and the crunch crunch crunching of yummy!" - try not to be discomfited by that,
7) has dog food that smells of meat, venison to be precise, which I have not had in years, and which I covet with intensity,
8) smells of saliva and feces,
9) has completely taken over the prison guard's affection (I don't actually refer to her this way, but I thought you'd appreciate the continuity - to me she's Mary, bringer of cat nip, petter of heads, but that's really neither here nor there),
10) delights in causing pain, torment, anguish, and myriad forms of suffering - he is, in short, a monster.
Sometimes I feel I can't bear it another day. His tyranny. And the great love all the others feel for him (even Luco, who won't converse with me, much less be friendly, will ask the dog his thoughts on matters of great (well, and little) import.
Why am I forsaken? Is it because I'm older than all of them? I'm fifteen, I think, which, okay, makes me rather middle aged, but I can still "hang out." I'm "hip" to the "lingo" of the "kids." See? And I have interesting ideas! If only they'd consult me....
Luco wonders what is the worth of existence, where the meaning is, and if he'd just speak to me, I'd tell him. I'd say questions of meaning and meaninglessness are foolish - a distraction from the real work of life - I'd say that we create our own meaning out of our relationships with others - out of the thoughts we have and the works of art we produce - I'd tell him to stop being so morose - that being alive is a beautiful privilege (and yes, a great amount of suffering is involved, but who are we to believe we are above [or below?] suffering? And how does that take away the significance of actually being alive? And what of the joy that comes after the sorrow? The millions of rustling birds that fill my throat when I think this is my life).
But he won't ask me. And I'm not about to go up to him out of nowhere and offer. Mingus is okay though. That guy is pretty nice. He's the only one I let close to me.
I have the one friend.