mr bones vs. kennel

Yet, I decided to accept that as just another trade-off in a line of many. As long as I’m living under their roof, I gotta listen to them. That’s the way it goes. So, little by little I started preparing myself for this holiday thing. Until one day I overheard the words that told me what family vacation really meant. I heard Mom talking over the telephone, she said “We’re leaving him in the kennel”. Whom? Him! Me? Me! Leave! Willy had never left me behind. Not once, not under any circumstances, I just wasn’t used to this kind of handling. I remembered that dog Willy once talked to me about. He called him The dog that died for Art. Some guy put him in an art gallery, letting him die there, while people watched this, hands crossed, like he was just another piece of art. He found him somewhere on the road, he was a stray, just like I used to be once. The dog was starving, Lord only knows how long he hadn’t eaten… and instead of feeding him, this artist guy placed food in one corner, water in the other, and put a halter round his neck, just long enough so he couldn’t reach the one or the other. He was drooling, this poor dog, trying to eat and drink, but there was no help. He died there and then, on the floor of this so called gallery. Willy was disgusted by that, and he warned me to stay away from this artist personas. First they promise you all the wonders of the world, they allure you with hamburgers, beef and bacon, and then they let you die. It crossed my mind that maybe Mom was one of them artists, she was maybe hiding it from me so far… and this kennel, it was maybe just another name for an art gallery.


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