Nerve On a Metaphor

"What the hell is dying over there?!" I courteously inquired of West, my new neighbor. West Kullcher was a large man who fed on anything within reach. As far as I could tell, no one especially liked him; but everyone on the block tried to please him when he happened to be nearby. . . everyone but myself, that is.

"All apologies," he said, as if to himself. It was then that I spotted the source of my ears' anguish. Next to West was a small nondescript mutt. "Casey, shut up," West said, and proceeded to give the animal a stern but caring kick. It promptly behaved. "That there's Casey; don't mind 'im," drawled West. "Casey's m'new dog, see, and I guess 'e's pretty talented. Least that's what the breeders up in Seattle said. Apparently 'e's some sorta new breed, er something. Anyways, yeah, he c'n get pretty gol-durned obnoxious when 'e actually makes noise."

You can say that again, I thought. As far as I could tell, Casey was a just a grungy mutt with a grating voice, his dirty light brown hair flopping over his eyes. "Well, I hope he learns to keep quiet and focus on his other, uh, talents."

"Me too, ya see? Fortun'ly, he suffers from this chem'cal deficiency, see, and I just don't give 'im the pills 'e needs if 'e's making a racket. Works pretty good," West explained. For the next few weeks I was fortunate enough to have Casey's raspy baying drifting through the bedroom window. Having my window facing West's house was genuinely getting on my nerves, as were Casey's territorial markings along the fence. I think the worst thing about it was that not even West was particularly enamored of Casey. I could tell that West kind of liked Casey's companionship--he seemed a lonely man--but beyond that, he seemed rather indifferent. Casey to him was nothing more than just a dog, something replaceable without too much difficulty, judging by Bob Barker's spiel on "The Price is Right" and the ever-present billboard nearby, which was frequently altered to document the most popular breeds and whatnot. I fervently hoped with each conversation that my sojourn in hell was coming to an end. And one day, it did.

"'E's dead, I came home and 'e was. . . 'e was gone," West lamented. I found West's need to actually telephone me incomprehensible; I was not a likely candidate for providing sympathy. "'E was a such a wonderful dog, and all a sudden 'e's dead. I left 'is chem'cal supple-ment on the counter an 'e got inta it. I guess 'twas too much for good ol' Casey." West sounded pretty choked up, and I had a tough time understanding why. After all, Casey hadn't been too special a week ago. Just another dog, really.

"West, it's okay," was all I could muster. I mean, he was an all right dog I guess, but his voice was more distressing than the majority of modern music I've come across. I quickly ended the conversation, feigning a "call on the other line." I was utterly unprepared for the transformation West was about to undergo.

I was leisurely driving home from work one day when I noticed an odd ornament embellishing my neighbor's front lawn. I haphazardly parked the car in my driveway and stumbled toward the new ornament, hardly believing my eyes. I crouched down and peered closely just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. About the instant I finally forced myself to accept that West had indeed placed a large bronze statue of "good old Casey" next to his front steps for the entire neighborhood to behold, West burst out the screen door. It promptly crashed shut after he was out of the way, rattling my already frail nerves. "Three times akshul size," he beamed. "I'm still striving to prop'rly honor Casey. C'mon inside," West beckoned. I slowly stood up and followed West inside.

He ushered me into a small room. I blinked a few times and tried to catch my breath. Before me was a shrine to Casey, replete with candles and countless photographs, all meticulously framed and captioned. The largest one was labeled simply "Casey: Unneutered in New York." I barely had time to absorb the entirety of the spectacle when West Kullcher dragged me into another room where an industrial size copier was churning out leaflet after leaflet. "I want th' whole wurld to know how special Casey was. A shame, fer such a dog to be martyred so," he explained, handing me one of the circulars as I gagged. I glanced at it, shook my head in disbelief, and promptly excused myself from the scene. I didn't understand, but I knew whatever was happening would soon pass. Who on earth would care about Casey?

To my complete dismay, West's campaign was a total success. Soon the whole neighborhood was pining for Casey's untimely and undeserved death, even those who, like myself, had previously complained about the canine-caused ruckus. In fact, some were even profiting from the grungy mongrel's demise. Most notable was David, the guy across the street who sold Casey paraphernalia by the truckload. Others simply stopped grooming their dogs so that they might embody whatever it was that Casey represented. This average dog's death had evolved into a momentous event. Here was this dog that everybody loved- but only after his "premature" death. He hadn't been treated especially well while he was around; they should have started the fanfare while he was around if he deserved it. At least that's the way I would have wanted it.

The posthumous publicity eventually proved too much for me to bear; I hopped over to West's now-immortalized home and crossly asked him why these things were going on. "You never seemed to think he was great when you had him. You didn't treat him especially well. What's with all this?"

"How dare you? Casey was an extrord'nary dog in s'many many ways," he responded, aghast.

"Sure, if you say so. Why should I care about one dog out of hundreds, just because he died early? The overdose was his own fault, wasn't it?" I was very sick and very tired of Casey fever.

"Nevermind," was West Kullcher's response.

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