Confined in its splendor the blazing sun set. The sea, only to be perceived by the warm sounds she made on the land as she gained it, and by the smell of her ever fresh saltiness that the wind avowed always to foster where she could not go herself.
Dog laid himself on the street gazing at the remoter effects of the sinking sun. What faint imprints of his former name and home that might have still lingered in the back of his mind were never again to be brought to his consciousness. Dog is what he was called, and Dog is what he responded to when the humans decided to take his notice.
At this time of day there always came a competing mixture of mouthwatering smells to almost overpower the prevailing essence of the sea. But Dog was unmoved. And the humans noticed, for their children would often try to tempt him but he would not look up.
A thinker once sat by him and caressed, thinking of apathy and wondering if it can't be a crime.
A little boy once escaped his mothers eye to try engaging Dog’s indifference in play and wonder. Young girls would stop and pity the poor creature with his ribs all to be seen. Care as they might, try as they might, he would not stir for them.
With so little time at hand, and so little success, Dog had accepted that he wasn't likely to be saved. He would never love again. He did feel spent. But it mattered little to himself. His silence continued and one day became absolute.
What a pity.
For that last moment that decided against redemption.
But beauty by its nature embraces all things fair and foul in itself and depends not only upon the moment but on moments gone and them as are to come. This only then is the redemption of Dog. The hope that the scale shall tip even so slightly. The hope that even Dog’s scarce consciousness has conspired to topple that scale wholly onto the side of the angels.
Proclaim despair where none ought rightly to be and itself shall be the returns.
And watch. He that holds the scale pronouncing humour where hope is declared naïveté.