I’m not alone. But my dog tells me I was never alone. That’s the story. Even as a child when I spent whole days by myself there was someone with me. A dog comes in your door. The dog knows there was always a soul inside you. And maybe you are weary of your life; your garments are tattered; the dog sees you for who you are.
On a trip to Dallas, Texas where I spoke to a group of physicians about disability, I sat for a long time in my hotel room. Vidal was on the bed snoring. I didn’t know anyone in Dallas and while I’d given a lively talk no one invited me anywhere after the thing was over. I called the concierge, said I wanted a taxi. “Come on, Vidal,” I said, “Let’s go take a dump on the Grassy Knoll!”
The cab drove us to Dealey Plaza. I asked the driver to wait. We walked up the gentle slope, the hill from which every conspiracy theorist believes Lee Harvey Oswald’s fictional accomplice fired a gun. Vidal took a shit. I bagged it and left it near where Zapruder shot his 8 mm home movie. We got back in the cab and returned to the hotel. We caught an earlier flight out of town.
Vidal told me it was the best grass he’d ever had. We weren’t lonely. We weren’t lonely at all.
Planet of the Blind 