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The Big Snore


by Gary Percesepe


It was Thanksgiving Day. Belly full, I urinated and felt ready. Fellas, I said, you name it. Gus and John looked at me. Gus was an old rescue I'd picked up somewhere, a friendly mutt the size of a catcher's mitt. John was another rescue Francine gave back to me when things didn't work out. He'd bitten me when we first met. The dogs went to sleep. I sat with my head down on the table. Soon, I was ready to urinate again. Finishing up, that feeling of euphoric emptiness came over me. Ready for anything! But what? I sat there with the dogs. Gus began to snore, then John. I got up to look at my ass in the mirror, which seemed a normal sized ass, and took comfort in that, as if one saw the door sliding shut at the grocery store at closing time but the guard nodded and let you in. I fell asleep and dreamed I was a grand piano that longed to be played. “But you haven't any keys,” an old lady said. “The ad stated quite clearly that you were in mint condition.” “They come in later,” I told her, “like baby teeth.” She slammed the piano lid, which woke me. Gus and John continued snoring, so loud the plates clattered on the dinner table. I joined in, and that wasn't as bad as it probably sounds. 

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