libertine dissolves.

everyone's dressing you up, dumbin' you out.

Clay dressed up the dog.

He was just smoking his post-lunch cigarette at 1:04 p.m. (like f*****g clockwork) when he grabbed up the half pit bull, half boxer puppy we had affectionately dubbed "Roscoe" and started in on it.

First he covered Roscoe in clothes. Nothing fancy, but items with words on sprawled across them.

"You're nude! That's filthy! We must fix that!" Clay shrieked, slipping the dog's limbs this way and that, fitting him into the cloth contraptions he had sewn for this occasion.

"I don't understand," Roscoe yelped. "Why must I wear these? Why am I all of a sudden filthy?"

"You're indecent! You could offend someone if they see you like this!" Clay fumbled getting the tie around Roscoe's furry neck.

"But all the other dogs look like me, have the same parts as me, shed like me, bark like me and have the same strut as me. What am I hiding?"

Clay laughed passively and rolled his hazel eyes back into his head for a moment. "You're not an animal anymore. Running around nude only reminds everyone else what's underneath!" Roscoe was silent except for a small whimper.

"There!" Clay pointed across the yard. Following his gesticulation, Roscoe saw a dog on the other side of the street, with a similar tie and Gap shirt, looking smug and unenthused. "Go meet with him, Roscoe. He needs someone to dig a few holes for him."

Roscoe looked up at Clay and tilted his head to one side, puzzled.

"I don't understand... why can't he dig his own holes? I've seen him do it before."

"Because!" Clay barked, "he'd rather consume his time with something more relaxing. Listen, if you dig a few holes for him for a few hours, he'll give you some grass clippings which you can take down the street and trade for food." At this last statement, an ever larger wave of confusion swept over Roscoe and it was apparent in the way he positioned his four legs under him, in the way his tail bounced nervously side to side.

"Clay... why would I do that? I could go hunt a rabbit or a squirrel right now and have my dinner right then and there!" As his words finished, a smirk crept across Clay's unshaven face.

"No, no. You don't own that squirrel. The doberman down the street owns all the squirrels in a two mile radius. If you eat one, that would be stealing."

Roscoe sat completely down and stared blankly ahead of him. "So, you're saying I have to work for someone else's benefit to get my food... but if I decide not to play that game, I starve to death?"

"Or go to the dog pound, yes." Clay snapped back. "This is freedom! This is opportunity! Now you can make yourself into whatever man you want to be!"

Roscoe, in one violent movement, tore his clothing off, letting it fall to pieces.

"Nah. I'm an animal, just like you. Only I don't plan on forgetting where I came from anytime soon." And with that, he triumphantly pranced away, scanning the neighborhood for a squirrel.