Otis and I live on a cul-de-sac. Hanging out in the front yard, soaking in the early spring warmth. Our neighbor sat down beside us with her dog.

The dog was panting, chest rising and falling, tongue out, eyes fixed. He was frantically licking a Frisbee, deliberately, as if it were a bowl of water.

Otis and I were mesmerized.

“He loves Frisbees so much he licks them,” she said. “They’re his pets.”

The dog kept licking. Panting. Grunting. Exacting his pleasure at the Frisbee.

Otis waves his tail. “That’s not love of the object. He’s honoring the engine.”

“The engine?” My eyebrows furrowed.

“The Frisbee,” Otis continued, “is a possibility. It’s the anticipated momentum. The promise of movement and capture.”

I looked at the dog again. He was charged.

Our neighbor threw the Frisbee.

The dog raced after it, tongue hanging from its mouth. Back seconds later, victorious.

Otis stretched his stretch. “The dog understands you don’t negotiate momentum. You feed it. That’s what many artists forget.”

The dog dropped the Frisbee at her feet and was gone before it left her hand.

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Go get ’em!!!

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