Most of the time he worked, a sort of sleepwith a purpose, so far as I could tell.
How he got from the dark of sleepto the dark of waking up I'll never know;the lax sprawl sleep allowed himbegan to set from the edges in,like a custard, and then he was awake,me too, of course, wriggling my earswhile he unlocked his bladder and streamof dopey wake-up jokes.
The oneabout the wine-dark pee I hated instantly.
I stood at the ready, like a godin an epic, but there was never muchto do.
Oh now and then I'd make a sureintervention, save a life, whatever.
But my exploits don't interest youand of his life all I can say is thatwhen he'd poured out his workthe best of it was gone and then he died.
He was a great man and I loved him.
Not a whimper about his sex life —how I detest your prurience —but here's a farewell literary tip:
I myself am the model for Penelope.
Don't snicker, you hairless moron,
I know so well what faithful meansthere's not even a word for it in Dog,
I just embody it.
I think you bipedshave a catchphrase for it: "To thine own selfbe true, . . ." though like a blind man's shadow,the second half is only there for those who knowit's missing.
Merely a dog,
I'll tell youwhat it is: " . . . as if you had a choice."
