I don’t know how to explain it, but shortly after my first walk with Corky I developed a dog muse. The voice wasn’t a cartoonish broadcast from the mind of my dog; not a stylized and sentimental thing. The dog muse was more compelling. As we walked through slippery valleys in the East Village I picked up radio sparks from the DM.
“You’re doing alright, you’re really doing alright.” Or: “See how we’re moving wide here? There’s something ahead we can avert with full on gracefulness.”
Having been a blind kid in rural New Hampshire who grew up on half-assed contempt I felt lifted, vivified. Corky and I had a combinative voice. The dog muse didn’t care about my spindly depressions and sullen retreats in dark rooms.
“Look how good you are now, crossing Brooklyn Bridge on a whim, going where you’ve always wanted to go.”
Corky and I would turn our shoulders moving rightward, crossing MacDougal Street and the DM would say: “Feel the pavement, its like old boards left out in summer in a marshy place, just for walking.”
Planet of the Blind 