All Dawgs Go To Heaven
It was impossible to be mad in a place where it only rained when you asked it to; where the default weather was reportedly 72 degrees, sunny, 5% humidity (for your sinuses, you know) with an extremely pleasant breeze. Unless, of course, you missed the autumn crisp or LA’s June Gloom or you decided that today should be a snowstorm.
No, mad isn’t the word for Kevin’s disposition. It might be better described as ungrudgingly annoyed. He missed having the opportunity to be irritated. Irritated was once his best emotion; his go-to disposition. An exasperated Kevin was what brought most comic relief to the tiny confinement in Fox Studios on those midnight oil-burning, do-or-die days before deadline.
Ol’ Curmudgeon Kev. Always grumbling about something. Yet never late for a due date.
So Kevin, now feeling rather nostalgic for what really was a lifetime ago, smiled as he spat out his grievances, groaning as he got on all fours to check once more under the bed.
His knees didn’t hurt anymore, but he thought they still should, probably. Either way, his groans were merely habitual. Authenticity maintenance.
He knew he could just ask for his other shoe back, or wish for an entirely new pair. He knew that. But it was fun to be inconvenienced. Kevin couldn’t even remember how long it’d been.
After sweeping the perimeter of his unusually simple living space (he kept it the same; a mattress on that awful free-with-purchase metal frame, a sad-looking closet of wind pants and stretched-out t-shirts and a flatscreen tv weighing down a cardboard shoebox on the floor) Kevin exited. The air quality outside was unlike anything from before; that was one thing he never once took for granted. A woodsy, sometimes floral smell hung around; Kevin’s favorite.
People were always so surprised when they found out the big bicoastal city boy felt most comfortable alone in the forests.
Mostly for dramatic effect, Kevin stepped outside with one shoe on and one very much lost. He limped a little, for the story. His entire existence revolved around the punchline--if it could be better, he’d make damn sure it was better. Some call this lying, but writers know that what we do is for the good of the people. I’m not even sure it should be called anything, if nobody finds out.
Kevin wasn’t hobbling around 5 minutes before he heard a particular prancing pant. Maybe it was a panting prance? He made a note to workshop the syntax. The sound was quite familiar by now. Time no longer existed, but moments still racked up. The strawberry blonde mane bobbed up and down, in rhythm with the stride. An unmistakable smile was wrapped around Kevin’s right shoe.
Give it back. Why do you do this?
Now just slightly outside of Kevin’s reach, our four-legged friend side-eyed the man and trotted right past him, stopping only to make sure Kevin would follow. Kevin rolled his eyes, starting after him. And thus began the game of Swishy Tail vs Swishy Pants. Kevin had an idea that he was being mocked, slightly, by Siskiyou’s title choice, but deprecation felt refreshing.
Our dawgs, in Heaven.
