In what has to be one of the most startling observations of my own capability for patheticism, I just sat down and cleaned out my wallet. It’s been something I’ve been needing to do for years, and thanks to the nudging of a couple bros in recent weeks who noticed that the thing had mutated into the size of a small Los Angeles County telephone book, I’ve finally sat down and gotten it done.

MY GOD.

I knew it’s been years, but I’ve lost count of what that means. Here are some of the items I found in my wallet:

• Countless receipts, most of them from gas stations, many of them faded to white.
• At least a dozen(!) business cards from people I don’t remember meeting.
• Photographs of my now-grown baby sisters from when they were about eight.
• My very expired U.S. Chess Federation membership card. I haven’t competed in tournaments since 1996.
• No less than three proof of auto insurance cards, dating back to when Bill Clinton was in office.
• Two credit cards that have been expired for over two years.
• Health and dental cards that I don’t even remember having.
• A crumpled mound of Chinese fortunes so old that I can’t even read ’em.
• An extra key to a door that remains unidentified.
• Post-It notes with phone numbers that mean nothing to me.

And my personal favorite:

• An optometrist’s prescription dated March 19, 1997.

Where the hell have I been? I’ve promised myself to never let my head get that far up my ass again.

From Conceptual Trends and Current Topics, a review of recent explorations in literary brevity. Included are Four word film reviews, five word London musical reviews, seven word wine reviews, one sentence true stories, a cool little thing called napkin fiction, and ours truly, Six-Word Memoirs.

Call me a hopeless romantic, but this email really choked me up:

———- Forwarded message ———-

I’m not going soft, but sometimes I like these heartwarming stories, and this one truly is amazing.

In 1986, Dan Harrison was on holiday in Kenya after graduating from Northwestern University.

On a hike through the bush, he came across a young bull elephant standing with one leg raised in the air. The elephant seemed distressed, so Dan approached it very carefully.

He got down on one knee and inspected the elephant’s foot and found a large piece of wood deeply embedded in it.

As carefully and as gently as he could, Dan worked the wood out with his hunting knife, after which the elephant gingerly put down its foot.

The elephant turned to face the man, and with a rather curious look on its face, stared at him for several tense moments.

Dan stood frozen, thinking of nothing else but being trampled. Eventually the elephant trumpeted loudly, turned, and walked away.

Dan never forgot that elephant or the events of that day.

Twenty years later, Dan was walking through the Chicago Zoo with his teenage son.

As they approached the elephant enclosure, one of the creatures turned and walked over to where Dan and his son were standing.

The large bull elephant stared at Dan, lifted its front foot off the ground, and then put it down. The elephant did that several times, then trumpeted loudly, all the while staring at the man.

Remembering the encounter in 1986, Dan couldn’t help wondering if this was the same elephant.

Dan summoned up his courage, climbed over the railing and made his way into the enclosure. He walked right up to the elephant and stared back in wonder. The elephant trumpeted again, wrapped its trunk around one of Dan’s legs, and slammed him against the railing, killing him instantly.

Probably wasn’t the same elephant.

“Behold, my friends, Spring has come. The Earth has gladly received the embraces of the Sun, and we shall soon see the results of their love.”
— Sitting Bull

Just got back from a routine sunset with the wolves. I cooked up their dinner, and they’re now chowing down just outside the back door on the porch. I can hear the sounds of their plastic bowls scraping atop the concrete steps with every mouthful. In a sort of sister chore, I just spent a few minutes doing the dishes, and noticed a reality pulling at my mind. Shouting. I must respect it, I must listen to it, I must obey its order to write it down. Whatever it is. Whatever it will be.

So now I’ve dried my hands, and cracked my third. Here goes. I assume it is to be a nonfictional essay, but I won’t limit it to that. Who knows? Maybe it’ll turn into a short. Perhaps I’ll even throw in an ironic twist at the end. Maybe toss in a haiku. Or a riddle. Hell, it could turn into a screenplay. Accompanied by a few pictures shot on my cell phone that I rape with Photoshop filters for a minute and a half. There’s no limit to this one. And I shall not edit.

Blogs are the best thing to happen to the stream of consciousness.

Anyway,

There’s something fundamental about a man’s relationship with a dog that we all think we know, and perhaps do. We feel it in our bones. In our soul, in our heart. Whether first-hand, or through culture. The Man/Dog relationship has been written about in poetry, in story, in song. It’s been depicted in graphic art. In film. It’s so ingrained into our reality that we’ve even come up with the cliche, “A dog is a man’s best friend.” And it’s true. There is nothing truer.

On this day, at this hour, there’s something very basic about my relationship with dogs that has jumped out at me. It’s not that I haven’t always been aware of it, because I have. It’s just that this realization has nudged me extra hard this evening, catching me at the perfect minute. And it’s telling me to document it.

It’s also probably wagging its tail.

As I was doing the dishes, it occurred to me that the love a man has for his dog is, at its core, identical to the love a dog has for its man:

It’s about the need to be needed.

Being needed is something every thinking, feeling soul needs. Being needed — or, at the very least, feeling needed — is what keeps us alive. It’s what gives us a reason to wake up. I suppose that’s what people feel when they become parents. The only difference is that a dog doesn’t grow up to defy you and call you a fucking asshole.

Dependency is the player here. There’s a certain music to be heard in the sound of your dog lapping up water, or licking its bowl, or crunching its biscuit. It’s a sonic reminder of the basic fact that if it weren’t for us, they’d have a serious problem.

And it goes both ways. I can’t help from believing that there’s a joy, a sensation felt outside of the human experience, that dogs feel when we’re happy. As much as I know that my dogs would literally die if I didn’t give them food and water, I know that they believe that I would die if they didn’t give me their love.

And I can’t say they’re wrong.

Kona turns ten this year, and my god, the inevitable rings louder every day. It’s been something that’s been bugging me for almost a decade. I’ve been prematurely memorializing this little angel ever since we met back in 1999. We have a history that I wonder if I’ll ever have again with another soul. As we get closer to that end, I often find myself way up in my head, questioning if I’ll ever be able to convince myself that it will be worth the pain that comes with our eternal goodbye. For now, I must trust will be.

And then there’s Vive, my little reigning man of the backyard. That monster. He’ll only be three in June, putting him nearly fifty years Kona’s junior in dog years. I’m realistically starting to consider his emotional connection to Kona, and will be thinking about taking in another mutt in the next couple years or so.

Those damn dogs. Mine in particular, and all of them in general. What would I do without them? I’ll save that answer for another conversation.

Alphabenacci
by Jace Daniel (b. 1969)

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“Politicians should read science fiction, not Westerns and detective stories.”
— Arthur C. Clarke