Like dog, like owner.
The man calls himself a farmer. Another farmer told me over a beer that farmers in general, they drink way too much. Our farmer, he left yesterday for a party and we haven't seen him since. I'm quite certain that he will appear out of nowhere tomorrow, sobered up – at least mostly – and will wear the same, hospitable smile on his face and begin his week from a Tuesday. Mondays are for staring into the cracks in the walls the bathroom and wondering where all the years went, vanished.
The farmer has two dogs. A black, vital female and a light brown, old male. They have barely any shelter, and nothing to shield them from the winter that's already blowing its first breath onto the land. We've been warming up the house of the farmer for a full day and it's still cold. The wind seems to find its way through the walls that are nothing more than a grid fence. But what the farmer offers the dogs for accommodation is worse.
The farmer and the dogs seem alike. Both have seen their best years by far and both have the same look in their eyes. Ever hopeful, never resentful. Both have lost a great portion of their selves. The farmer has probably lost more.
It makes me sad in a way, to see people becoming cadavers with lively smiles. The only thing that they can still cling onto is the bottle, and the bottle doesn't love you back.