Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Let Me Go

He wouldn't let me out. Nearly half-million marched on Chicago yesterday, I think. I wouldn't know -- I wasn't there.

I could have been useful. On Queensberry Street, when I was younger, I scared pigeons on the fire escape, ran from a motorized toy with a squirrel tail attached to a plastic ball from Las Vegas, canvassed for socialist City Council candidates from the Fenway neighborhood, protected Tony and Shelly from the cat named Friday who lived across the street, rolled on the bed when they recited Italian poetry, and killed cockroaches.

But Tony wouldn't even let me step on the back porch yesterday. I stared at the door knob. This always works. You stare it down, then he opens the door. What was that noise? A chipmunk? A bowl of yogurt? I tried to trick him. He bagged yesterday's garbage. I grabbed it with my punctilious jaws. Let me help -- I'll take out the garbage this time. After ripping open the bag for food scraps, I would gallop to Grant Park. He took the bag out of my mouth. I stretched to the doorknob on my hind legs and he walked away.

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home