Jackson Pollock Monologue

He knew. The dog was dead alright. If the sight of its prone body, half turned inside out 180°, Jackson Pollock style in the middle of the road, and also streaked near the curb thirty feet ahead wasn’t enough proof, then the smell was. Eau de maggots, rubber burn, iron number three. In fact, he wasn’t entirely sure it was a dog, to begin with, and was suddenly uncomfortably struck with visions of the mystery meat that had been served for lunch each Friday in high-school. Today was a Thursday and more filled with ‘peek-a-boo’ organs than he would have liked. Staring down at the carcass, he silently sent up a prayer to every high-school student within a five-mile radius to be kind to their lunch lady; or else, prepare to bring a bagged lunch come tomorrow. The notion was sick. Although, he was the one who had decided all of five minutes ago to investigate the massacre outside his front lawn so that he could have an excuse to be late for work. And really, wasn’t that some joke (no punchline) for his life? Some terrible
Looking up, he could make out the white, balding head of Mrs. Francis, slipping back into the safety of her little box home and was suddenly aware that from an outsider’s perspective, he probably looked crazy. Hell, he probably was. Any sane person, after all, would have given Fido nothing but a passing glance before returning to less morbid curiosities. Mrs. Francis and the lack of appearances from his other neighbors stood as a testament to that. But, he felt an accord with this dog’s small, beaten down body—so much like his own—that he just couldn’t bring himself to walk away, not yet. The answer formed before his mind had even begun to scratch the surface of the question and with a sense of clarity that had alluded him for years. He was going to bury the