My Dog Tulip Page #2

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left by the tide,

she is often moved

to open her bowels.

If not, we pass on to another

species of refuse dump.

The dead are less particular

and more charitable

than the living.

It is a charming

little cemetery.

To what better use

could such a place be put?

And are not its ghosts gladdened

that so beautiful

a young creature as Tulip

should come here for her needs,

whatever they may be?

Tulip sometimes

embarrasses me, too.

She delivered herself once

in front

of a greengrocer's shop...

and this on the way home from

a long walk on putney common,

where she had already left

as much as I supposed her

to contain.

I knew the grocer and his wife

were a surly,

disobliging couple.

Hoping that they would not

observe Tulip,

I hastened by, hissing at her

to"hurry up for god's sake!"

As I passed.

I glanced back,

intending to disown her

if she had been observed.

Tulip had just finished

and was following me.

But at that very instant,

the man and his wife flew

angrily out and caught my eye.

Useless now

to pretend ignorance.

Yet I continued on my way.

They hurled insults after me.

Woman:
Here! Mister!

Look what your bleeding dog's

gone and done!

Then my conscience smote me.

True, they were horrid people,

but Tulip's gift would not help

to uplift their hearts

to a sweeter view of life.

As soon as this noble thought

occurred to me,

I retraced my steps.

"I'm sorry about my dog,"

I said.

"But if you give me

some newspaper

"or a bucket of water

and a brush,

I'll clear it up for you."

It took me some time

to swab it up,

but I was thorough.

"Well that's done,"

I said cheerfully.

It was now her turn

to pretend not to catch my eye.

"You could say 'thank you,"'

I added mildly.

Why should i?!

She retorted, with a brief,

contemptuous look.

Standing there

with my hands full,

I had an impulse to drop it all

back on the pavement.

Women are dangerous,

and I feared now

that Tulip's death cries

as she went under a bus

while dodging

some vegetable missile

would sound like music

to this one.

I restrained myself.

For as long as I could remember,

I had been searching

for an ideal friend.

But I have never really found

the person who fitted

my exacting requirements.

There was always some flaw...

too tall, too short...

too outgoing, too shy...

too insecure, too independent.

As the years passed

and the opportunities

grew fewer,

I had a mental image of the

ideal friend as a plain jug,

containing a delightful mlx

of good companionship

and intellectual stimulation,

the shape, age, and size

of which

no longer

had any importance for me.

I still felt

that if I only turned

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