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Buster

Then the favorite child, the dog, laying quietly, victoriously, staring like a curious toddler with no eyelids, pretending now to be a log, now a newspaper, now a sack of potatoes, while his tongue nearly falls asleep from boredom. He stares and yawns at the TV, no job, as he scratches himself and reminds everyone around him how terrible their life is. Then suddenly he stands up, as if he could read my mind, as if he were finally going to get a job, do something with his life, anything. His confused, wobbly legs struggle to hold his weight up, as awkward as a handshake in the men's room. But he doesn't get dressed, doesn't check the want ads, doesn't answer the phone. Instead he simply turns around in a circle, lays back down, and begins to lick himself. Again.