teeth cut on whetstone â€˜Once upon a timeâ€™ has become a well thumbed directive of tales and the tellers of idle secrets that it no longer does any more than spurn the points of secrets themselves, which is to celebrate truth, those who have it and those of us that seek its tutelage. There are of course animals that live by the legend of another key, and they too hold yet still their place as solid and in some if not all cases, trustworthy creatures. Perhaps it is true that they would eat what you have not yet, so that on returning from some minor interruption, you may find that the plate has been licked bright clean. Well the truth then is as much an admonition as it is our own silly perfection. There are no doubt few creatures one would have for tea as sooner have for dinner. But a domesticated creature such as a dog or a cat are as good guests as any we might have. It is not theirs to dine on either trust or loyalty, at least not as a first instinct. I confess, that in truth I would neither eat a dog nor for that matter, a cat. It might be a nobility which they hold within their eyes, despite their generations of breeding to the contrary; perhaps it is that they are best watched closely. I believe it best now to begin the tale, as I hope at least that once upon has been redrafted to relate more directly to now, and then, and whenever you are reading. I will bet that you donâ€™t know this story. It no less came about for this very reason; for I too am unaware of its ending. In truth, I have some doubts that it is even real; but then stories do not necessarily restate the life we live, they often feel similar, this is true, but they follow further into life of any kind, than we could so rarely wish. Be it real or imagined, there is only so much room for us and our senses that not all of what might ever be said can ever possibly be told. In any case, the dog in this story smelled to his zenith of freedom, you see it had been pouring down with rain that whole day and some time in the afternoon, the man who had been inside keeping the rain out, took to glance out in the yard. It is here where the dog had kept, somewhat sheltered and yet more so with his one eye imprinting the front door, not far from his place of respite. It was not that the man had no heart, nor had he no clue, rather he had indeed put together some old but perfectly useful ends of wood and fashioned a most suited home for his beloved animal. His dog, no less aware of this sentiment, acted as an animal would and saw that he had perhaps space within his dry, warm house, at least as much so as was
there in his heart. It is said that despite the odd slowing of this down pour, it rained almost continuous, as though there was a limit that must have been required somewhere for the rain to somehow, finally stop. It is no less true that the dog would simply have settled for the door to open to him. As of course it did. Once inside, he was happy as a dog can be, but certainly less confused about where in fact the annoying cat had got to. It was true, that she often went missing on days like this, as if she had some cat sized cranny into which she had snuck and slept, as she always tended to. In any case, the dog had known where he was, he had been outside and he was still wet to prove it. He lay down on a mat at the foot of the table, not far from where the man sat, his eyes trained with those of the man, as they peered into the wet day and conjured ways for it to pass, all the while quietly together, and peaceful for the change.
The dog slept on and off as
do most animals, a part of here and there, but always sure that wherever they are that it is so. In spite of the momentum that carried outside so heavily and so full, in the house it had slowed down, so much that the man forgot his own animal. He was taken deeper into the day, so much that unlike that of an animal, he questioned, although only cursory, what form of day it was. It might be that the answer was not particularly pertinent, or that he had somewhat detached from his question, but no answer came. Suddenly, instead of being within, he felt without. Mostly he was without direction, but in the interest of moving with the story, we will say that he became even more so alerted to the time and that in this late hour of the day, he had found himself growing weaker as he had also been without food. His own movement thereon became stronger and more attuned, albeit as though his animal called to be fed. This he did, at least he set about to fix something together; after all, he had not yet seen to the dog or the cat. He had left her sleeping on the bed upstairs. As he remembered these resurging duties, he heard yet another call to his attention. It was the door; this time he ignored its knock and went to make a meal. Outside, a mountain loomed up beneath the sky, as though to swallow clouds, their each kiss misinterpreted as a new attack. The rain continued far into the distance, past the house, and on past the road, where it fell like an invisible cloth over the whole scene, covering any and all signs of life, and leaving us wet and curious as to how the man and the animals got on, seeing as they had only one plate between them.