There are many things that can be said of Murphy the dog: He is Murphy. Yes, he is. He is a dog, a good one, a dog he is decidedly. Murphy is ten, and has some teeth. He lives with me now, and has a head shaped exactly like a teacup.

Murphy, as you can see here, came attached with wall eyes, which is a version of dog I highly recommend.

When this weekend began, I had no plans for acquiring a Murphy. And yet here he is, as undeniable and as clear as damnit. When he chases a ball, he lunges for it with both front paws outstretched, like a diver. This is a physical reality of Murphy’s.

The cat, like all cats, does not care for the dog. Does not this remind you of all the cats you have known in your own life, and the ways in which they have been indifferent to various dogs? The fact that this dog seeks only friendship and meets with disdain has perhaps reminded you of various times in your own emotional life. Beyond the idea of rightdoing and wrongdoing there is a field; let us meet there.

Here is Murphy pu’ing the gowans fine and fleeting carelessly the golden years in my backyard. If you have any tips for getting rid of a raft of morning glories that has taken over, I would like to hear them.

The angle is different, yet the dog remains the same. Always somewhere there is a dog in a garden; this is a constant on this sick and sorrowing world. Somewhere there is always a dog in a garden with the sun on its face. Even after you die and are gone from this earth, there will be dogs standing in the sun with flowers growing under their feet.

A dog enjoying a bone! Can there be anything more simple than that? What a delight it was to discover that dogs do in fact enjoy gnawing on bones; it was rather like seeing an elephant jumping on to a footstool to escape a mouse, or a burglar carrying sacks with $$$ printed on the sign.

Here Murphy rests, for the day was long and his work was good. Now the work is complete.