i am terribly conflicted about barak obomba. i keep wanting to quit him. i keep resisting the finish, because of the guilt ever impending, because i see the tears of obomba, issuing whether or not i come. but if i do not come, no one outside that house is witness. perhaps that is overweening, anthropomorhic.
i push the thoughts background. i look at him again. i go there today. i decide on the way.
shall i tell the story of his family? i don't understand myself, but i can give the bones.
to be continued.

continued.  today they called me off. so i can think til wednesday. 

barak obomba is an unlicensed therapy dog, got for the mother who died. now he's therapy for the daughter of the mother who died, who's on dialysis, who won't be getting a kidney after the five year waiting period. thing is, barak is only a therapy dog, and otherwise hasn't had a dog's life. who's been captive in a sick ward, who's agorophobic and soon gets overwhelmed by the worlding world and pulls houndlike for home. who then poops where he started, in the hall, and returns to the sick bed.

perhaps i should not say this.

i love barak, but i can't change his fate really. he didn't choose, but he is loved. he's just a house dog. my three walks a week may be a difference, and i reckon he'll miss them. perhaps before me he didn't know what he was missing. to me the walks just underscore the sad unnaturalness of his modified dog life. maybe better to stay in with the human nucleus, though it's sick.

he's doing a great service.
i hope i've done a small one.
i just don't know.