A classic of American literature, ruined by man’s best friend.
Chapter 1: Economy
When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, with my dog Scrappy.
Scrappy is a dachshund mix I got from a “breeder” in Lexington. She met me in the back of the Stop and Shop and fished him from a crate of puppies in the backseat. $150 cash. No receipt, no worries. A man is rich in proportion to the number of bullshit things he doesn’t have to worry about.
Chapter 2: Where I Lived and What I Lived For
To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. To be awake is to be alive.
But at 4:30am? Christ, Scrappy. I awaken to the incessant lap of his tongue on his under-parts. Desperate, I resort to earplugs. The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation trying to drown out such sounds.
Chapter 5: Solitude
I have a great deal of company in my house; especially in the morning, when nobody calls. I am no more lonely than the Mill Brook, or a weathercock, or the northstar, or the south wind, or an April shower, or a January thaw, or the first spider in a new house.
Plus I have this fucking dog. Who barks when a cricket scratches its ear - Keep reading