The dogs are in a good mood, early morning, tearing at a frayed rope. I play opera arias low on the hifi—Lucia di Lammermoor, Manon Lescaut—and the dogs stare hard into each other’s eyes—their optic nerves fizzing under conventional language. Is it Summer or Winter? What happens to the written legends of the lost islands? GRRRR, says the little dog—trains arrive and depart in my paws—I’ve a planet of birds deep in my throat. The big dog doesn’t care. The big one wears tall black rubber boots and tests the ice on the pond. Neither lets go.
Oh Donizetti. There is no evidence you had a dog. But how can a man who doesn’t love expect to be received?
Planet of the Blind 