The Way of the Dog by Sam Savage

was my best friend. He was not, when it came to investments in art objects, my adviser. He would scrupulously refrain from saying things like, Nivenson (he would always call me Nivenson), I suggest you buy X or Y. Still, I took my cues from him. I would search his conversation, his facial expressions, even his body language (how close did he stand to the painting? was he tense or relaxed? what was behind that smile?). An offhand remark about a canvas, a nod of approval to the painter, and ten minutes later would find me slapping down thousands of dollars. In time, after spending a lot of money in this way, I confidently dispensed with his tutelage, purchasing paintings he had never seen. As if I could see with his eyes.
    He worked by contagion. I walked like Meininger (a swaying, ever-so-casual amble), I dressed like Meininger (white trousers, open-collared pastel shirts, floppy wide-brimmed hat in summer). I picked up as many as I could of his elegant minimalist gestures (slight tilting back of the head to indicate assent, a small slicing movement of an index finger to express negation). He was not tall, but he gave an impression of tallness. His restrained gestures, his handsome, haughty features, his even-toned, methodical mode of speaking (never tumbling excitedly as I did), made him seem an imposing figure. In social situations he was affable, charming, amusing, and at the same time he seemed thoroughly in command. I thought of us as pals. Walking down the street or arriving at a party together we were the two musketeers, I thought. It never dawned on me that I was practically his creation.
    It was Meininger the painter and Nivenson the critic and collector.
    The life of a dilettante: a floating, empty life. The dilettante’s antics are sincere, without self-mockery or any sense of how absurd he is. He lacks the reflective sadness of a true clown. As a result he often looks like a hopeless bumbler.
    There was a long moment between the ages of twenty-nine and thirty-three when I managed to deceive myself so thoroughly that I was almost happy.
    She is pushing me in a wheelbarrow. I am in shorts or in my underwear, my naked legs hanging out over the front of the barrow. The ride is extremely comfortable, the barrow sways pleasantly from side to side. She wheels me through a town of narrow streets and half-timbered buildings. I notice the names of the streets: Avenue of the Revolution, Street of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, Avenue of Martyrs. We halt in front of a huge domed building with columns. “This is the planetarium,” she says. She upends the barrow and dumps me. I am afraid that I will miss my train, and I begin crawling up the steps of the building, crawling as slow as a snail , I am thinking as I climb. I have almost reached the top when I feel myself being dragged back down by my feet, my head banging against the steps, which I now notice are slimy, moss covered. I hear someone say, “He tried to escape.” A different voice says, “His shell is completely crushed. ” I want to see who is speaking but discover that I am physically unable to turn my head. I wake up to find that I am lying cattycorner across the bed, my head hanging off the edge. It is nowhere near morning.
    On the refrigerator:
    Chao Chou was asked,
    “When a man comes to you with nothing,
    what would you say to him?”
    And he replied, “Throw it away!”
    She helps me up the steps, pushing from behind. She waits in her room until I call, then she helps me out of the bath. I stand there, dripping, while she towels me dry. I look at myself in the mirror: a creature of swollen belly, withered scrotum, retracted penis, pendulous breasts like an old woman’s, emaciated arms and blue-gray legs, whites of eyes red-veined and yellow, gaze watery, hair thin and arid, skin splotchy, dry, and scaling, nose sharp, bent, bigger than before, a beak. We face each other while she buttons my shirt, a fat old woman and a bone contraption. She follows me