The Island of Delusion

I love dogs. I hope you love Angus with me.

The Island of Delusion

The island itself is small. It needs only to accommodate one person at a time. Lush or barren depending on the visitor. Inside it's shores lay comfort, peace, or laughter. Again depending on the visitor. It's only universal purpose is to provide a location for the visitor to blend their hopes into a place that won't argue about them. I find myself visiting the Island of Delusion often. Almost every day. More so now that Angus showed up.

I sat on the sandy shore of my island and proclaimed, "Of course this hound will not dig holes in the backyard." The sun declared my righteousness as I shielded my eyes to accept it's nod of agreement.

The sun and I had communed on this same shore years before. It declared my righteous belief that macaws will not eat my furniture. I was wearing sunglasses that time. But the nod of agreement shown down through those polarized lenses.

I like my island. It's lush in the middle with tan sanded shores welcoming the washing of it's edges by salty warm waters. I have three coconut trees in the center. Their shade offers moving spots on my sandy shores to sit, while I wash my feet in salty watered delusional thoughts. My island sustains my confused, and my need to deny the confusion.

Angus dug two holes while the sun laughed behind my back. They gape wide next to each other between the boat and the fence. They are both the same size, with the ability to accommodate the diameter of his new ball. I think on Illinois when I see these holes. In Illinois these would be dark black soil sided. The rich Illinois soil that his big goofy webbed feet would have thrown there too, would be piled up. But here in Florida, it's all sand. The first four inches of sand is dirty silt colored. But below that, it's light tan, like my island. I need to fill them back in but webbed dog feet scatter sand excavated. There's no sign of the sand he threw. I'll need a rack before a shovel.

But first a trip back to my island. I need to consult the sun and invigorate my confidence that Angus surely will not dig another hole. My feet sink toes first into wet sand kissed by soft salty waves. The sun warms my face while I lean back on elbows. The sun and I smile at each other. And we laugh and laugh. Surely Angus will not dig another hole.

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