Chapter 79
Chapter Seventy-Nine
DeadStrings: Are you there?
DeadStrings: Otis Bernard—Bernie for short.
DeadStrings: We’ll agree to disagree. He responds to both . . . depending on who has the snacks.
StringTheory27: That’s emotional bribery, and you know it.
DeadStrings: He’s got these ears that make him look like he’s constantly mid-thought. I think he might be smarter than me.
StringTheory27: Most dogs are. Especially the emotionally available ones.
DeadStrings: Ouch.
StringTheory27: Just saying. So, where are the pictures?
DeadStrings: I don’t have a camera.
StringTheory27: How are you going to document his goofy faces, his dirty paw poses, and his inevitable hatred for bath time? Buy a digital camera now.
DeadStrings: Are you going to guilt-trip me into becoming a tech person now?
StringTheory27: I’m going to nudge you into the 21st century gently. Early.
DeadStrings: I’ll put it on my list. Right between “figure out life” and “buy lint roller.”
StringTheory27: Fine. What about if you send blurry disposable camera photos of Otis through snail mail? I’ll frame them.
DeadStrings: He deserves a proper portrait, honestly. Regal, tongue out, one ear up.
StringTheory27: A face that says, “I just peed on your shoes, and I’d do it again.”
DeadStrings: That’s . . . alarmingly accurate. He did that this morning.
StringTheory27: He’s a good boy. A chaotic one. But still good.
DeadStrings: We make a solid team: one over-thinker and one creature who lives purely in the moment.
StringTheory27: He’s teaching you. You realize that, right?
DeadStrings: I think he might be the first thing I haven’t tried to fix. Just . . . let exist.
StringTheory27: That’s kind of beautiful. Write that down.
DeadStrings: Maybe I will.
StringTheory27: No, really. You should write it down.
DeadStrings: What, like a diary?
StringTheory27: Like a field report. “Day Three: Otis chewed through the leash and stared me down like I was the disappointing one.”
DeadStrings: I feel like he’d keep better records than I would.
StringTheory27: That’s why you have to do it. Imagine it—The Otis Bernard Chronicles: One Man’s Journey Into Dog Dependency.
DeadStrings: Sounds like a New York Times bestseller in the making.
StringTheory27: Or a zine. With doodles. And questionable grammar. Sold for $2.50 at some record store counter between the Fugazi flyers.
DeadStrings: Should I be worried you’ve already visualized the merch?
StringTheory27: T-shirts. Otis with sunglasses. Caption reads: “Sit Happens.”
DeadStrings: . . . I might actually wear that.
StringTheory27: Then it’s settled. You journal. I’ll illustrate. Otis will handle PR with his soulful eyes and anarchist energy.
DeadStrings: What if nothing interesting happens?
StringTheory27: Everything is interesting when you pay attention. A sideways look. A stubborn sit. The moment you realize you’ve stopped thinking about who you used to be because someone needs their kibble now.
DeadStrings: You make mundane things sound like poetry.
StringTheory27: That’s the trick. Life is mundane. But it doesn’t mean it isn’t worth remembering.
DeadStrings: Okay. I’ll try. First entry: He peed on my guitar case. Again.
StringTheory27: He’s just marking the beginning of your next era.