Charlie the black Labrador disappeared in the storm on Sunday, a pouring down of buckets and crashing thunder that laid most of us down flat with the weight of the falling pressure.
It has been a run of the putrid touch lately, when my every effort to get it right turns up shit. It is a syndrome exacerbated by effort, churning more and more best intentions into disappointments, let-downs and failure.
"My aged black lab escaped my yard Sunday during the storms. He is black,
about 100 pounds, and he has a difficult time getting around, so I'm not
sure how he got further than the drive, but he is missing. If anyone
has seen him, please let me know. He answers
to Charlie, though usually only if he thinks food is involved."
I read that message at my desk and thought about old Charlie. Was he off on a rounder? Scarfing cat food off or porches and licking wrappers behind Vertigo burgers? Had someone taken him in, unable to find his people? Was Charlie alive?
I thought about that dog all day as I willed myself to not leave the building, my job, and my financial security behind. Such a feat of strength by the hunger artist that goes unnoticed by his distracted audience. I exited the building to no applause, although I took my bow.
The social network was alight with erroneous sightings of Charlie, and one concrete piece of information, however ominous-