When people ask me if I've read Moby Dick. I say yes. When people speak of Ivanhoe and Robinson Cruesoe and Dickens, I weigh in with one relevant line, perhaps a chuckle, and then I return to my pipe and my memoirs written on parchment.
I am a fraud.
I barely know how to read. This is being typed by an eighth grader I pretend to tutor in algebra while I dictate, listing back and forth in a rocking chair, my robe sullied by another evening of ramen and oysters. I pay him in stories and backrubs. His name is Telford.
Wishbone, and Wishbone alone, brought me to my liar's way of living. His small dog antics in the big dog pantheon of literature made me feel like all I had to do was tune into PBS at 4:00 to learn everything I needed to about the world. Wishbone...you were never my dog. You belonged to Greatness. I often lay awake in my bed, the flame of my lantern guttering as the last of the midnight oil expires, and whisper "If only...Wishbone...If only...."
They canceled you, and with you, my potential. My will. My pride. My desire for pants.
If only they knew, Wishbone. Enough for tonight, Telford. Why are you typing that?