Cave Canem

It is three in the morning on Saturday following Good Friday. The waning moon washes the bedroom with cold light. The sheets are cool and clean. The dogs–(in paranoid moments I think they are part of a neighborhood conspiracy designed to keep me at home and in town) are fast asleep. The mutt is stretched out making me cramped and bowlegged between my knees and the weeks-old Chihuahua is curled up on the pillow, his head resting on my shoulder. The last fire of the season pops a little. An old song runs through my head; El santo angel de mi guardia.

My neighbor sent his young daughter over with Rambo in an effort to disperse the litter which includes Killer, Brutus, Claude and Zeus. His hyper-thyroidic bug eyes and charcoal muzzle enchanted me, and the mutt didn’t attempt to eat him.

Like hobbits we share this tiny dormered adobe; my men.




© Tasso 2002