The White Dog

There used to be a white dog who sat oustide on my home street. He never barked, he never made a sound, he barely even moved. He just sat there. Always at the same place. Every day. And when it snowed, you had to walk right next to him to even realize he was there. If he would have jumped, the world would have propably just turned away from under him.
He is gone now. I don't know where or how. But I wouldn't be surprised to hear that when the snow melted that year the white dog just simply melted away too.



His name was Caesar. I think he traveled the world just sitting there.
He never saw the Grand Canyon or the Eiffel tower, but every year he saw the first snowflake that fell on our street.
He never took a ride in a rollercoaster, never saw a play or a movie, but he watched children skate in the park across the street, and he heard their laughter.
He couldn't talk, but once he listened to two students with identical beards walking by discussing politics and poetry and wondered why they are not talking about their beards instead.

His name was Caesar. I called him the white dog. He never called himself anything.

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