I could hardly believe it when I realized that it's been a whole month since my dog made some book recommendations. Since it's almost my birthday,
Molly would like you all to read Thomas Mann’s “Death in Venice”, “The Year of
the Death of Ricardo Reis” by Jose Saramago, and “Chronicle of a Death Foretold”
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I see that she’s trying to bring me down during my b-day week, and I guess all I can say is that if my breath smelled like a corpse all the time, I’d be a bitter, old bitch too. Why not “The Death of Ivan Ilych”, Molly, or “Death in
the Andes”? I mean, Mann over Tolstoy? Really?
But let's be real for a second: mortality is depressing to think about. When I feel sad, I like to just look at Molly and think "You'll probably die first." It's
all about perspective, you know?
I tried to think of a way to celebrate my birthday, pictorially, by pimping out
Molly's picture, but I didn't want to do something banal like put her in a
birthday hat. My original idea, which I shared with my brother and with
Chandler, was to stick some bunny ears and baby legs on her with Paint, because
in real life, if I had a baby with a dog's head and bunny ears, I would be
totally into that and think it was cute squared until the scientists took it
away from me and put it in an institution where they later developed a
dog-human hybrid slave-species (the Anubians) that eventually takes over the
world. No one that was sober agreed.
then I started having this dream of dressing her up as something better than a
dog that likes to eat its own butt all the time continually every minute of the
day. I have decided that every year from now on (read: never again) I will dress her as a literary
character. And so, I present a photo shoot with Shermoll Holmes.
birthday to me.