UNITED STATES—It was my revenge all over again, all mine, Luna’s revenge. Far away from the paths of my prolific poop, the master was strolling over the deliriously green greens of a local college campus. There rose to his nostrils an unsettling yet familiar odor. How could it happen?
That was simple enough: in the dusky dawn when the master set off for points east, he had inadvertently cast a blind eye to the jinxed steppingstone that had some pellets of my digested kibbles and meat bits in gravy. Of course, my defense lawyer could establish that this stuff on his shoe sole was the creation of the Chihuahua-Terrier and not me, Luna, the pit-bull lab.
“Objection!” my defense lawyer will interject. “This is a clear case of profiling.”
The master was already in a bit of a pique, as he was locked out of both Franklin and Jefferson halls. Sometimes being locked out is worse than being locked in. You needed to have an ID to get in, and the master was brooding already about the indignity of going back to the educational institution from which he finally graduated. To give a talk, no less.
Then master’s malaise at the locked glass door soon grew to a fury at the perspective of unpeopled, unless hallway punctuated by gleams on ceiling fluorescents bounced off the ultra-glossy back-to-school linoleum at stately intervals. He paced around the spongy bright green lawn.
At last, he gained entry via a student who had a card that unlocked the doors. To be back at this place of learning was no happy walk down memory lane, but instead the distillation of the resentment he was feeling. That this blockage from into a building stoked his smoldering conviction that the default du jour that a guest is the new synonym for suspect. Look who was the perp now!
In retaliation, the master deemed that Luna would get no food today, and Deville no walk.
Franklin Hall was named for that figure of the American enlightenment, admired by both Franz Kafka (chiefly for the unfinished autobiography) and Luna’s master who is no master. This journey to that campus opened that old wound over getting glossed over for position there. It had never really folly heeled.
There was much more acceptance in being bewildered than knowing the truth.
Poor master, say I, alias Luna, was no master. At least not in the academic way, for the master had eschewed that step up the American educational ladder. He was still a rebel and an outlaw with yet enough crumbs of soul to feed both dogs and walk Baby Deville, the Chihuahua.
I remain alias Luna, the indomitable.
To be continued…
