Pigs Fly

SHE photoshopped this. Now she’s walking my dogs,

I’m the pig. Get that out of the way up front. P is for pig. P is also for punk, paranoid, and pugilistic.

But I let her in. She’s the girl that was staring at me in the flea market. Turns out she’s a neighbor. She says. Never knew I had neighbors. I have two dogs. She knew their names, Jack and Brillo. She’s plumper than her picture. She has a camera. Concerning. Keep your friends close; keep your enemies closer. She snapped me at the laundromat.

It’s a fallacy that you can just disappear. There’s always laundry.

Jack is the wire-haired dachshund. Brillo is the Airedale. He ate a soap-filled steel wool pad as a puppy. He foamed at the mouth, then excreted steel wool in his stool. Airedales are invincible.

She knew their names though. They loved her. Trust your dogs. I think I believe that. I tried to end her interest in me. Showed her how old I am. Something else I got at the flea market:

I also showed her when and how I listen to it.

She said, “That’s cool.” Name of Heidi. Really? Bent shoulders, terrible posture, millennial pooch, I could swear she said “youse,” and yet she was somehow charming. Then she locked up the dog walking job. She said, “Everyone says you’re not Sam Dealey but a stone killer named Johnny Dodge. They say you are invulnerable, like Superman or somebody. Is that true?”

How she got this picture. 

I showed her my scars. Mistake. I was drunk. And then she insinuated herself into my life.