The dog walker locks the front door of his street level city apartment. It’s mid-afternoon and the heat is at a record, nearing 100°. Nature calls and the dog walker must relieve his poor cocker spaniel of his bothersome bladder. 

He begins the routine stroll. Going left, taking a right down Gonzo St. and stopping at the first available shrub. Quick leg lift and a piss. Down the row of awkward, wilted, dying trees. Crackling bark peels from the chapped heart of the sad oaks. 

This time he dedicates to the mutt is also a time in which the dog walker ponders the sad surroundings around him. The once bustling city streets have worn down to tumbleweeds and the occasional street walker. The signage of the stores is so worn it’s mostly illegible. Locals know the places by heart and have no need for that tourist shit. This place once full of life, decadence, and harmless debauchery is now vacant signs, head shops, liquor stores and a deathly lack of daily activities. 

Looking for something to pass the time, the dog walker peeps into an open window of a nearby dwelling. An elderly man in a wrinkled under shirt, no pants and questionably stained underpants. His head is laid back in a dark leather recliner, palms up and what seems like a line of spittle dribbling from his open mouth. He looks back at the pooch, sniffing its interesting surroundings with enthusiasm. Another view through the dirty window shows an open pill bottle with its scattered remains thrown over the belly and crotch of the old man. A sudden jump from the corpse forced the dog walker to continue his route. He gets out of sight of the window, he stands and takes a moment to reflect. 

What would one have to go through to have to drown out their life?

 The want to numb, to forget. A tragedy that can only be replied with by a sad sigh and a moment of silence. It seems that we must grasp some sort of vice to filter life for tolerance.

An image comes to his mind…

The dying man attempts to grab loose pills near his feet when he falls from his throne, a sad fumble into a sickly crack. His groans go unheard much like his cries for help with the years of drug abuse. A stiff corpse forms where it once was and life goes on as it would.

After walking past Pagonia and Jackson, the dog walker cuts through a familiar alley to save a few steps. The six rhythmic beats of their footsteps slap on the wet pavement. The end of the valley revealed a large man in a brown woolen robe; the hood covering his bald head from the relentless heat. The dog walker brushes thick beads of sweat off his brow. Just the thought of wearing that heavy garb brings sweat to his back and ass. 

The robed man says, “May he walk with you.”

Then he looks at the small dog. “May he walk with you.”

Back to the dog walker “May he walk with you.”

Back to the dog. “May he walk with you.”

The dog walker nods in appreciation  but can’t help but feel bad for his soul. The robed man wipes a blanket of sweat off his face for it to be thrown onto the pavement. It continues to pour down his chubby cheeks and chin, down through the rolls to be soaked in his horrific socks. Pools of his sweat create an aura on the sidewalk.

The dog walker continues his stroll. 

“Sir?” the robed man says.

“May he walk with you. May he walk with you.”

His grimace is being shaded from his hood as his teeth begin to reveal themselves in his smile. The dog walker doesn’t care to acknowledge his final blessing and makes his way around the corner.

What a vice and what a damned shame. Giving yourself to God is one of the most daring things to do today. Call it a vice because of the real damage it can deal, but you can gain something nothing else can compare to. The sobering and punishing reality, something Kafka would conceive. But think of the fruits of your labor: eternal life, eternal grace and happiness. This decision may pose you as the sycophantic pariah, but you can decide on your own.

The dog squats and defecates at the beginning of Cherry Cir. the affluent neighborhood of the city. The dog walker steps with enthusiasm to check in with his mate that lives a few houses down. A nice sentiment. He hopes to not surprise him too terribly but it’s always so hard to get in touch with the bastard. He works long hours at an international lending firm. God knows what he or THEY do, but they make a hell of a lot of money! 

The dog walker gets to the familiar house. An ivory metal fence surrounds the two story estate. A mote of fresh green lawn filled with clovers, dandelions and assorted international grasses. His sparkling driveway leads to an extravagant gate with lions, gryphons and gargoyles guarding the entrance. The dog walker notices an intercom with a talk button and number pad. 

“Hello?” As he presses the metallic button.

“You there man? Helllllooooo?”

He uses his hand to visor his vision and notices the two car garage is wide open. The dog walker counts the cars in the driveway.

Eleven.

The twelfth must be with him. 

Because of his demanding, bullshit career, the dog walker sadly never sees his friend, the business man. The chateau bakes in the heat of the harbor side sun. Alone. 

The red, black, yellow and purple vehicles glimmer and reflect blinding rays. A natural deterrent to potential criminals or birds that dare to shit on any of these mechanical masterpieces. 

A man that works so hard but to never enjoy his spoils is a sad thing.

The dog walker and dog are both satisfied with their journeys, but are undoubtedly exhausted from the relentless summer air. His flat is in sight after a brisk half-mile walk. Out of excitement, the dog breaks from its owner’s leash. A quick snap followed by a metal ring to the floor. The dog runs across the street to a gazebo surrounded in a grove of trees. 

“You damned dog! Get back here!”

The dog walker looks both ways and runs across the street to snatch his disorderly pet. As he reaches for it, the small dog growls and shows its jagged canines. Gnashing with anger and excitement, it bites his fingers. 

“Fuck!”

He clutches his fingers and reaches with his other hand for the dog’s collar. It unbuckles and flops in the brown, dead grass. Anger and frustration builds as he drives for the animal. He misses and lands on his belly. A dry thud. The dog makes its way across the street again to the front door of the flat. Either out of instinct or accident. The dog walker bursts with rage as he sprints to the door. A food delivery truck strikes the walker and is thrown into the heated pavement. Blood pools below as it flows from his nose and mouth. Broken teeth and bones, punctured lungs and burst eyeballs.

Dead in the street.

The small cocker spaniel claws at the familiar wooden door.