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Thursday, December 31, 2009


Some abuse is going on next door. I should specify: some animal cruelty is taking place. At least, I hope it is. You see, each and every precious day of our precarious lives is now pervaded by the operatic cries of a neglected canine in the apartment next to us. By turns shrill, heart-rending and just plain aggravating, this little pooch is working hard to ensure that we share in his sorrows.

This morning I was attempting to devote some well-needed reflection to the vexed question of whether badgers also dream of electric sheep, when this mutt began his extended diatribe on the absence of his masters. Frantically, I searched my library for a ready retort. Having previously misplaced my copy of The Plague Dogs I read from Watership Down instead; our wailing neighbor was bitterly offended.

Perhaps I should consider liberating the beast, but then again, I've never been the animal liberation type, partly because I love Ted Nugent. Also, I've been known to request a steak that comes complete with a cow-bell still attached to it.

Lately, I've a new theory and it's pretty disturbing. What if, there's no dog next door? What if this is some hoax on the owners part and it's really been a cat all along. I'd be so embarrassed. Worse yet, what if it's a kid? I'm loosing sleep.

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