bark raze almost everyone who lives on this block owns a dog. i've never seen any of these people take their dogs for a walk. no one. not once. what they do is they let them out in the backyard to bark for five minutes or an hour or however long it takes for someone to scream at them to shut the fuck up, and then they figure that's good enough and they bring them back inside. i wonder what they think. the dogs, i mean. i wonder how it feels to be an animal imprisoned by a larger, dumber animal who doesn't understand what you were born to do. i think maybe i've been that animal and known that feeling. someday i'll kick down all these fences, bite through all the leashes and harnesses that hold my brothers and sisters in place, and we'll run until we're nothing but wolves in a field somewhere far from home, howling at the earth's only natural satellite. 211125 ... tender_square i couldn’t find my greyhound—the dog didn’t want to go outside when i called out for her. i descended into the basement to locate her and heard his voice respond from a room off the main. i walked to the doorway and stood at the threshold taking in the scene: he was seated at the desk in his characteristic three-piece suit with watch fob, wearing his round wire glasses and puffing on his pipe. the curling smoke made a halo around his white-haired head. i had entered c. j. jung’s office, and my dog was sitting obediently at his side as he stroked her head. in the spot between her floppy ears where his fingers brushed fur, a growth was forming—the start of a horn made from bone, a sprout from a pedicle like a single antler. “i need more of your personal history,” he informed me flatly. my golden greyhound would not leave his side. “but you already know everything,” i said. he considered this for a moment, refuted me. “there’s more to know.” he drew on his pipe, “there’s further depth required of you.” when i opened my eyes in the stillness of twilight, i knew that greyhound was my shadow self—a domesticated animal with powerful legs that once coursed game using speed, relying on sight rather than scent. the insistent thump in my chest said, try as i might, i'm not meant to be retired; try as i might, i'm not meant to be leashed. 211127 what's it to you? who go blather from