Cudly Bulldogs

I saw the tattoo guy last night on my walk and noticed that both of his eyelids were tattooed with words in blue green script. His bellybutton is pierced with two silver studs. His arms, shoulders, front torso back and neck are all blue green decorative illustrious scenes. He doesn't have an ounce of fat on him just sheer muscle from tearing apart siding on houses. I asked him if he designed his tattoos. Some of them, but my friend did most of them. He's an artist. Me too, I said. Maybe I should get into tattoos. There's good money in it, he said. I was raised on The Beatles Illustrated Lyrics book. They'd be weird. I love the Beatles, he said. It's all I listened to for five years, nobody would take a ride with me anymore. They're still good. That's how you know someone is great when they are still amazing, decades later. We both agreed. Then he picked up his youngest of three dogs like it was an infant and he rubbed her pink belly. She showed off her fang tooth bulldog underbite. I like this guy I thought as Lily and I continued on our walk.


His voice is like gravel. He leans in dangerously when he speaks. Too many decades working on roofs and shouting. His brain and skin are fried. His laugh has a cackling shimmer of razor wire. I'm moving, he says wheeling a red plastic Little Tikes wagon across the street. My cat has two bedrooms, it's ridiculous, I don't need to own two houses he says. They're paid for, but I'm all alone. I'm moving to the house I grew up in with my father. You're closer to the water I said. If I don't sell it in 6 months I'll rent, it he says wheeling away his glass Pyrex pie plate.