Hey guys, it’s me, Danny—your favorite dog. I’m hangin’ out just listenin’ to Willie sing a little Kris. My human, Andrew, doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know that Kris and Willie are speaking for God. Have you ever listened to “Sunday Morning Coming Down”?
I love to ride in cars, don’t you? Sticking my head out the window, barking at any dogs I see along the way. So this is what I wanted to tell ya. Last Sunday morning, Andrew took me out to our car, opened the door, and told me to hop in; we were going for a ride.
Being a Sunday, the roads were practically empty, which was a good thing because Andrew was a little the worse for wear. He had had a rough Saturday night and he was still a little tipsy. We meandered around for a while, and just like in the song, we stopped by a church and listened to the choir do its thing. When those heavenly voices hit a crescendo, I think I saw a single tear form in Andrew’s eye. It was then that I knew what Kris meant when he wrote, “There’s something in a Sunday makes a body feel alone.” Because I saw it in Andrew’s eyes. I didn’t know it at the time, but Andrew was looking for something. He had an emptiness in his soul. We never go for rides to nowhere, but I guess he felt he was already on the road to nowhere on that lonely-gray Sunday morning.
Andrew turned to me. With a quiver in his voice, but still wearin’ his usual shit-eatin’ grin, he said, “I need a beer.”
I thought to myself: “You need more than a beer, pal … you need help.”
I knew that the only thing Andrew cared about more than getting high was me. So before he could start the car and go looking for booze, I jumped out the window and took off, knowing he would chase after me. As long as he was focused on me, he would not dwell on his Sunday morning coming down. But I’m sorry to say he caught up with me right away. Then we went and bought a six-pack.
It was indeed a Sunday Morning coming down … and it came down right SMACK!on the head of my human.
Now, before you all get all concerned for “poor Andrew,” I wrote this a few years ago. I didn’t write a new story this week because I was busy. (There’s a new cat on the boat in the next slip and I’ve been showing her the ins-and-outs of living in a marina.) Anyway, it was me to the rescue (as usual) because after that infamous Sunday, I told Andrew to throw the TV out the window and sit down at the computer and write something about his misbegotten youth. It would be a whole lot better than bingeing on the Kardashians, which would drive anyone to drink! Well, one thing led to another, and now with 200 short stories and eight novels under his belt—almost a million published words—he doesn’t have time to get into trouble. He’s too busy writing.
Nowadays on Sunday mornings, we go down to the local restaurant/bar and sit outside where dogs are allowed and have a nice healthy breakfast with an occasional Bloody Mary thrown in, but only one. No more six-packs for breakfast.
I think this will be my last story for a while. Although it’s been real nice talkin’ with you good folks, I gotta get back to being a dog. Try not to miss me too much.
Danny the Dog