Gone To The Dogs

Gone To The Dogs

For most of my sixty years on this Earth I was just another poor, forgotten, homeless soul roaming the

unforgiving Manhattan streets. I owned nothing, lived nowhere and, to society at large, was nobody.

I had no home, no one asked my name, and I had no possessions. Then came the virus. Suddenly the

world was one big ghost town and with almost everyone gone, well, I guess I own everything. Cars,

homes, you name it. But the only worldly possession I cherish is a gold heart shaped locket which my

best friend Esmerelda gave to me on her deathbed. She was a scientist who caught the lethal virus

she was working so hard to cure. She felt sorry for me and let me sleep in her lab most nights. Right up

to the moment she collapsed and died in that same lab. and as I knelt beside her she pressed

the locket into my hand and said,”This holds the key to my heart, and our salvation” Those were her

last words. I cried for days and wear it around my neck as a constant rememberance of the kindest

person I ever knew. It has a tiny black plastic techy looking rectangle in it, but since all the computers

are dead I have no clue what it’s for. I only know she gave me her heart and I keep it close to mine.

So how did I come to be one of the last people in New York City and, hell, the world actually? Let me

tell you the story.

It was a long time coming, the End Times. But when it happened, it happened fast.

Mankind, we called ourselves. Should’ve been Mancruel.

Humanity did a number not just on ourselves, but on our poor planet as well. We fouled the air,

poisoned the waters and raped the land. Basically, like pigs, we crapped all over everything and

ourselves as much and as often as we could, just cause we could. Billions of folks who never really

believed that there might be no tomorrow if people didn’t change their ways. Then came the

virus. All seven waves of it.

Some folks said it was Mother Nature’s way of saying, “You want to mess with me? I’ll show you

mutts who your mama is!” Some say it was just God showing his disappointment. Me? I could care

less. I just know that things are way different now. Simpler. Cleaner. Quieter. And I like it fine.

Nature has reclaimed the city. Long Island has bears. Queens has deer. Brooklyn has coyotes.

The Bronx? The Bronx is a wasteland. Some things never change. And Manhattan? Manhattan has

gone to the dogs. My dogs. And those lovable mutts and I are happier than we’ve ever thought we

could be. Who knew?

I’m a fairly healthy sixty year old. Half Italian, half Cherokee and all New Yorker. I grew up here in

the seventies, when tourists were few and mom and pop shops were many. I run with a pack of sixteen

dogs I rescued from an abandoned A S P C A. Pitbulls, beagles, labs, all different shapes and

temperaments and yet, unlike most humans, we all live in fun, furry harmony. I’m the Alpha and

Jocko, this massive but gentle German Shepard is my right hand man. Well, dog. I never had a friend

who literally never left my side. Jocko’s the little brother I always wished I had. Except with fur. The

mutts and I all eat together, sleep together, play together and God help anyone or anything that tries to

hurt one of us. Healthiest relationships I’ve ever had. Loyalty. True friendships. Unconditional love.

The end of the world had to happen in order for me to find my soul mates. Go figure.

Its a pretty good life. Simple and pretty much drama free. Oh, there are some goofballs around.

Scavengers and such. They steer clear of me and the mutts. Once in a while, some of them get the

courage to try and steal from us. It never ends well for them. Woof woof. But there are places the

mutts and I steer clear of. Alphabet City. What’s left of Chinatown. Washington Heights. Especially

the Heights.

See, a troop of Boy Scouts formed a nasty little tribe and claimed Washington Heights as their own.

Their head scoutmaster, an ex Navy Seal, turned them into a band of survivalists. They set themselves

up in the Cloisters. Folks who try to pass through there are never heard from again.

Like I said before, life’s good. We hunt, I fish and there are tons of canned goods from when the

mass evacuations happened. Why didn’t I leave with everyone else? I wasn’t invited. None of us

homeless folks living on the streets were. It was every man and woman for themselves and I guess the

more fortunate New Yorkers ignored us just like they always had before. So we stayed, and all but a

very few of us died. Was it genetics, act of God, dumb luck? Who knows? All I do know is I was

born in Manhattan, built a life, lost it all, was homeless on the streets, and now? The mutts and I live

like we own the streets. And with everyone else dead or gone, we kind of do.

Each night, the mutts and I head up to the roof garden I built on top of the Belasco theater.

I grow tomatoes, lettuce, strawberries. No flowers though. The murder hornets killed off all the bees.

I usually barbecue. Roasted peppers and deer meat, if hunting was good. Then we lay out on the roof

and watch the stars come out. The full moon shines and is reflected in the now crystal clear Hudson

river. The breezes are sweet and smog free. In winter we relocate to a townhouse on the upper west

side where we keep a nice, roaring fire in the fireplace. It’s a good life.

What do I do with my time, you may ask. Me? I drive a Hummer when I’m not racing the electric

blue Porsche up park avenue. I wear Fu Bu, L. L. Bean and Air Jordans. I carry a flashlight, com

pound bow and arrows, a knife that would make Crocodile Dundee proud, a thermos full of honey

mead (I had a pagan girlfriend once) and a bag of treats for the mutts.

I sing rock operas at the Met in Lincoln Center. I shred metal on electric guitar at Carnegie Hall. When

I strum the high C, the Mutts go wild.

I get lonely once in a while, but to tell you the truth, I prefer the mutts to people. They listen. They

play. They love in a pure, innocent, passionate free way I’ve never encountered in my 60 years on this

beat up planet. And who knows? I keep up the guitar solos, maybe one day I’ll be discovered. Till

then, I’ll just keep rocking out to my faithful four legged fans. Heck, maybe one day they’ll bark along

in sixteen part harmony and we’ll do a version of “we are the world” like no one ever imagined. Now

that would really be something to howl about. Woof, woof!