The dog and the typewriter.
-
[email protected]
In the days after the cannery shut down, I had
returned home. I found a typewriter. I made text
together with it every day, and I felt as one with
it.
One day it stopped stamping letters when I pressed
its keys. I had fear that it would never again be
as it was before. I wondered what to do, and
thought to ask someone for help. A dog of mine
came by, and spoke to me.
"You do not need anyone. You must find the answer
by yourself. Take this shovel, and dig."
I went to the patch of dirt outside, and started
to work. I dug many holes, deep and wide. After
three days, my hands were sore. And yet my
typewriter still would not speak when I tried it.
"You will keep digging," said the dog.
After three more days, my hands were covered in
blisters. And yet my typewriter still would not
speak when I tried it.
"You will keep digging," said the dog.
After three more days, I was deep into slimy clay
and rotting fungus. My hands were bloody and raw,
and I was in great pain.
"I can dig no longer."
"Then take this," said the dog. It brought me a
child's blanket. I took it. The blood and filth
on my hands stained and ruined it as I held it. I
was disgusted. And then I was anguished to see
that this blanket was my very own from long, long
ago.
I became angry with the dog. "I see not the
purpose of my labor."
"You are a poor digger. See, the typewriter knows
it."
I went to my typewriter, and in my anger I grasped
it in my hands, and shook it. My blood and dirt
covered the sides. And then three letters
appeared on the page, as though its action had
been restored and I had pushed the keys:
w h y
The typewriter then faded from my view, and was
gone forever.
The dog has stayed with me, and though I feel
gratitude for its service, I now keep it on a
leash. It no longer speaks to me, or I hear it
not.
