I dwell on things, particularly work. I always have. It’s one of the things about me that drove Ann crazy. The irony was that the more I would dwell on work the less I would dwell on Ann.
I awoke that Fourth of July with a horrendous headache. I needed something to eat but there was only molded bread in the apartment. I wasn’t about to try the cat’s Fancy Feast—not yet…
One of the great things about living in a city is the proximity of eating establishments. When in the country, the wife and I had at least a ten-mile trek to the nearest gas station. However shitty the neighborhood where I now live, at least there’s a Whataburger across the street.
I sit in the establishment waiting in agony for my breakfast taco. The Jack is eating a hole in my stomach. I lifted the Julius Reynolds envelope last night before barely escaping the D.O.
Instead of listening to Dwight Yoakum and Tom Petty all night, I sipped bourbon and reviewed the materials therein. What I see is fucked up, to say the least.
The pictures that Mr. Reynolds has taken are disturbing. Pit bulls, some twenty of them, are littered about the rodeo arena’s dirt floor. Though a few have actual dog houses, most are sheltered only by makeshift lean-tos. Chains confine them to an area of only a few feet, with disgusting bowls of slop just barely in reach. How in the hell could no one find a problem here? The dogs that are in view look barely sustained. Marks are visible on a few, even from the distance that the photos were taken.
I’ve brought the materials with me into the Whataburger. I’m flipping through the packet for a refresher. I have to put them aside because it’s nudging the oncoming nausea.
I call Mr. Reynold’s after I eat. Upon return from the local VFW, he calls me back. We make arrangements to meet tomorrow.