I saw a dead dog on Brea Canyon yesterday night. It was small and had these fair chestnut curls, suggesting that his owners had taken great care of him¹, well at least until he was ran over. I’m not even know if he really was dead. The body was in the intersection, but located in such a way that it would only bother you if you wanted to branch off into one of the side roads, where all the warehouses are. Ha, bother. That’s all it really is. Naturally, nobody could be bothered to get out of their car and check, at the risk of holding up traffic and feeling the stigmas of the nonconformist. Whether he got to his safe spot in the road because somebody moved him, or because cars gradually knocked him out of the way, I hope it was the former. I guess animals die all the time, but that this particular dog had so many of the elaborate markings of human domestication made me imagine something. I imagined I was like a middle-aged white lady and the dog got out again. So I’m taking my spoiled brat of a 7 year old daughter out to look around, and she’s decorating the leather seats, consumed by anxiety. I’m kind of pissed off now, at my idiot child, at how long this excursion is going to cut into my television time. Then, it comes into view, the shell of a familiar face in a disturbingly unfamiliar setting. Ha, I know nothing about owning a dog². I’ve never had one, and I’ve never considered them seriously. This is what just what my mind suggests. Roadkill is bothersome to most everyone, but devastating to a few. And out of this observation, comes an interesting idea. I’ll write about it tomorrow another day.