“That’s not the wind,

that’s me howling from South America for you”

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The other night I made a fast list of all the dogs we may have met together:

 

Nero, Finley, Bowie, Enzo and Charlie, Chloe, Stella, Atlas, Murphy, Lola, Dude, Tommy, Phil, Jimmy Ray, and Qfwfq.

 

You never met my dog, he is a river.

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I studied the howl for centuries, read it, heard it, recited it; even got a college degree on it. 

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I always thought the dogs were reciting music for you, for the moon, until this night.

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Tonight I can hear the Moon dogs howling, playing a conversational Ping-Pong with the dogs we know, and as we sent each other text messages, they howl back and forth trying to understand each other.

 

 

Who knows? Maybe someday they will, though it already sounds like abstract jazz.