teeth cut on whetstone

‘Once upon a time’ has become a well thumbed directive of tales and the tellers of idle

secrets that it no longer does any more than spurn the points of secrets themselves, which

is to celebrate truth, those who have it and those of us that seek its tutelage. There are of

course animals that live by the legend of another key, and they too hold yet still their

place as solid and in some if not all cases, trustworthy creatures. Perhaps it is true that

they would eat what you have not yet, so that on returning from some minor interruption,

you may find that the plate has been licked bright clean. Well the truth then is as much

an admonition as it is our own silly perfection. There are no doubt few creatures one

would have for tea as sooner have for dinner. But a domesticated creature such as a dog

or a cat are as good guests as any we might have. It is not theirs to dine on either trust or

loyalty, at least not as a first instinct. I confess, that in truth I would neither eat a dog

nor for that matter, a cat. It might be a nobility which they hold within their eyes,

despite their generations of breeding to the contrary; perhaps it is that they are best

watched closely. I believe it best now to begin the tale, as I hope at least that once upon

has been redrafted to relate more directly to now, and then, and whenever you are

reading. I will bet that you don’t know this story. It no less came about for this very

reason; for I too am unaware of its ending. In truth, I have some doubts that it is even

real; but then stories do not necessarily restate the life we live, they often feel similar, this

is true, but they follow further into life of any kind, than we could so rarely wish. Be it

real or imagined, there is only so much room for us and our senses that not all of what

might ever be said can ever possibly be told. In any case, the dog in this story smelled to

his zenith of freedom, you see it had been pouring down with rain that whole day and

some time in the afternoon, the man who had been inside keeping the rain out, took to

glance out in the yard. It is here where the dog had kept, somewhat sheltered and yet

more so with his one eye imprinting the front door, not far from his place of respite. It

was not that the man had no heart, nor had he no clue, rather he had indeed put together

some old but perfectly useful ends of wood and fashioned a most suited home for his

beloved animal. His dog, no less aware of this sentiment, acted as an animal would and

saw that he had perhaps space within his dry, warm house, at least as much so as was

there in his heart. It is said that despite the odd slowing of this down pour, it rained

almost continuous, as though there was a limit that must have been required somewhere

for the rain to somehow, finally stop. It is no less true that the dog would simply have

settled for the door to open to him. As of course it did. Once inside, he was happy as a

dog can be, but certainly less confused about where in fact the annoying cat had got to.

It was true, that she often went missing on days like this, as if she had some cat sized

cranny into which she had snuck and slept, as she always tended to. In any case, the dog

had known where he was, he had been outside and he was still wet to prove it. He lay

down on a mat at the foot of the table, not far from where the man sat, his eyes trained

with those of the man, as they peered into the wet day and conjured ways for it to pass,

all the while quietly together, and peaceful for the change. The dog slept on and off as

do most animals, a part of here and there, but always sure that wherever they are that it is

so. In spite of the momentum that carried outside so heavily and so full, in the house it

had slowed down, so much that the man forgot his own animal. He was taken deeper

into the day, so much that unlike that of an animal, he questioned, although only cursory,

what form of day it was. It might be that the answer was not particularly pertinent, or

that he had somewhat detached from his question, but no answer came. Suddenly,

instead of being within, he felt without. Mostly he was without direction, but in the

interest of moving with the story, we will say that he became even more so alerted to the

time and that in this late hour of the day, he had found himself growing weaker as he had

also been without food. His own movement thereon became stronger and more attuned,

albeit as though his animal called to be fed. This he did, at least he set about to fix

something together; after all, he had not yet seen to the dog or the cat. He had left her

sleeping on the bed upstairs. As he remembered these resurging duties, he heard yet

another call to his attention. It was the door; this time he ignored its knock and went to

make a meal. Outside, a mountain loomed up beneath the sky, as though to swallow

clouds, their each kiss misinterpreted as a new attack. The rain continued far into the

distance, past the house, and on past the road, where it fell like an invisible cloth over the

whole scene, covering any and all signs of life, and leaving us wet and curious as to how

the man and the animals got on, seeing as they had only one plate between them.