Bull Dog


I like to saunter along a pathway that meanders through our city.  It is a narrow oasis of life where I can think, and where I sometimes talk with passersby and the wild ducks that congregate along the fresh, green-water creek that irrigates the Weeping Willow under which I like to sit.

On one occasion it began to rain, so I found shelter underneath my tree.  But despite the weather, people continued to walk by: old folks with a Weiner dog, young folk on bikes, lovers arm in arm.  It’s a delightful place to be: a random community of well-wishers.  Even the constant chorus of birds continued to sing as I watched and listened beneath my leafy canopy.  Can so much joy, I thought, be gathered together in one place?

A topless young man declared his virility for all to see.  He sported an Iroquois cut and led a brutish Bull Dog to whom he affectionately said, “Pass the ball now, pass the ball.”  The Bull crushed the child’s toy between his jaws and throated growling sounds of canine pleasure.  He was in no hurry to please his master.

Yellow Iris rose up from green spears in the creek.  A red-breasted Robin landed by a few paces, and proclaimed himself lord of all he surveyed.  The rain stopped as quickly as it began and trees lazily swayed in the cool breeze.  What a magnificent place!  I thought.  Could Adam’s Eden have compared? 

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