Things Shrouded

Our sad eyed rescue dog has this weird habit. After we get home from a walk and take off his leash, he stands there and looks at me expectantly. Expecting what I don't know. Clearly at some point in the many homes he's been in, there was some end of the walk command or ritual or treat. This is a mystery that will never be solved. I will never be able to give him release.
Now, I thought about making some grand metaphor about expectations, and the feeling of needing permission that will never be granted. But it's St. Patrick's Day, so fuck it. Instead, Pullo and I are staging "Waiting For Godot." I got us a couple of colorful matching hobo outfits and fashioned a bare tree out of a lamp and we went to town.
We started out with just using our American accents (Pullo's is a little bit Bayou, him being born in New Orleans.) But soon switched to Irish. We were having a grand time of it until I realized we had left Beckett far behind. Pullo was lost in the Lucky Charms commercial and I was shilling for Irish Spring. Something like this:
Pullo: Godot, he's worth the wait, him being all Magically Delicious.
Me: Aye, he's strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
Pullo: Ya stupid feck, that's not Irish Spring, it's Secret Deodorant. Irish Spring is "I like it toooo."
And then I thought, I've got him where I want him. He's talking, I can ask him about that post walk look of longing.
But he just sighs as if to say, "A dog's gotta keep some mystery."
Later today, we'll be re-enacting the Potato Famine.