There are many questions to be pondered
TRHolte
So I’m talking to this guy in a tavern and he tells me he thinks his girlfriend might’ve killed his dog a couple of weeks ago. I look up at the TV over the bar while I’m trying to think of something to say and there’s a sports announcer with a deep raspberry voice assuring the public that anything’s possible.
Down at the other end of the bar a guy in a Red Sox cap is ending a joke, saying “So the farmer goes ‘Mister, a pig this good you don’t eat all at once,'” and his drunk-ass buddies fall all over themselves laughing. The guy next to me says “I loved that dog, man. Loved him. More’n I did her.”
I’m standing up to leave even as he asks the question. I walk out into the too-bright street and the too-fresh air. Outside I feel like a guy whose dog has been killed, and like an alienated lover capable of killing a dog, and like a farmer who has a pig so good you wouldn’t eat it all at once. And I’m telling myself I’m not like that. I got faults like everybody else, or I wouldn’t be hanging out in a bar in the afternoon—but I’m not like that. The voice of the television announcer is bouncing around in my skull, saying anything’s possible. Anything’s possible. I’m hoping he’s wrong.
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