We’ve been planning on getting a dog.
As though we consulted a book of baby puppy names,
one of us came up with one that would be perfect for a little scrunch-faced bulldog: Armour.

We have routines like the young couple from John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger,
minus the class animosity, that we’ve built around this dog, who will be the most
anticipated pet of any household.

Little Armour will be pleased to know Ron has already developed his voice.
That he’s a got an extemporaneous flair for creating dialogue is a perk. Poor Armour
may wonder, though, if he’s being spoken to or if his owner is deranged.

Every time we see a bulldog, we think of Armour, but we know our Armour will be our own.
We’re not dog nappers, thank you.

Armour is less imaginary than he is a bullprint of the dog we hope
we’ll find waiting for us one day. If androids did dream “of electric sheep,”
it’s possible to imagine a little bulldog dreaming of the owners ready to devote to him slavishly.

Or, so my sleepy mind considers it this morning.