Godda Love an Old Dog

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 I’m walking into town, it’s cold and I’m thinking the crema on James John Cafe espresso is thicker than the blankets in Honolulu.  Maybe some St. John’s blankets, too.

I wrap up my left-brain into my back-pack about 10AM.  Tech stuff done for the day.  My right-brain says it wants to go for a walk, huh, huh, please??  I make a deal with the right brain: make sure we have something to write by the time we get to our secret cafe.  You come up with the idea, and I’ll put it in words.

So I’m walking: right brain happy to be outside and marking all the telephone poles and fire hydrants. Ideas for writing?  Nothing.  Something.  "I went to India?" Nope.  "India went to Jim?"  Possible.  Might work.  Actually happened, too…

But nothing solid.  Lots of thoughts: "put the Tarot writing on-line" …"look at that scruffy dog, seems sick" … "put up a web-forum for you,Friend, to leave comments" … "Did you remember to lock the door?"Lock the Door?!?

Ouch.  I forgot to remember if I did. Cant forget what you forgot till you forget it.  So I walk back to check the door.  Still no great ideas.  Looks like this will be a late edition, and that will cut into story book hour over at Slim’s – That’s a no-no: the old dogs there have well earned stories.

One of them, Ulysses has unkempt whiskers poping out of his stocking cap like some fungal puff-ball.  His line is ridiculously monotonous: he always asks for money, and instantly follows up by saying "I haven’t had a drink in 10 years" – I think: "I don’t give a crap what you do when you have money,do you have a good story?" – Joan of Arc walks up and says "Jim, he’s scamming you."  Thanks, Justice, but his story will be bought cheaply, I assure you. Mwa - Ha - Ha…

Finally I’m headed out.  Late.  What to write about?  Not a good idea in the batch.  Crap, There’s that scruffy dog again.  Looks lame, starving…  Friend, Should I call the pound?  I see a guy idling his time nearby.  Doesn’t he feed his dog?  Is he a street-dweller?

"Hi! Is that your dog? He looks like he needs some help."   — "Yes. … He’s winding down" the guy says slowly and sadly.  I realize the dog is not ill-treated, but an important part of this guys life.

I shout: "Godda love an Old Dog" – He shouts back: "Thanks" as he leads his cherubim companion slowly back home.  He knows the inevitable – It takes love.  Right brain uncorks a bottle of compassion, responsibility and pathos and serves it up in my cup of life.

And Ulysses’ story.  It will be bought cheaply: a few dollars, some honest interest in him as a human being, and a feeling that he is heard will be the price.  It isn’t expensive, just precious.  Godda Love an Old Dog.

All us Old Dogs need it.  I thank my Right brain for paying attention to this and my Left brain for putting it into words, both are well loved Old Dogs to me. (High Five, right brain, I knew you could do it!)

And yes, in a sense, India DID go to Jim.  I’ll tell you about that, too.

that's all--