Small Dogs on Short Leashes

When the circus lady, who was very, very fat, over-exerted herself her breathing became labored and her legs bucked and trebled, her eyes turned inside out and her mouth went dry. She was unaccustomed to exerting herself, even under-exerting herself, so did only as much as was required to move herself from one place to another. Margareta, István and Márton accompanied her on errands, making sure she exerted as little exertion as was required to achieve the errand-objective. Had he legs to swim with and a swimming-suit that didn’t make him look like a radish the legless man would have gladly swam the length of the Də-ˈnü-bē. Unlike the very, very fat circus lady the legless man took very, very little for granted. He saw the world from the downside upside. He saw things most people ignored, things that could only be seen from the bottom up. He saw small dogs on short leashes.

He saw shoes and stockings and unshod feet, some with bunions, others with corns and rough skin. He saw cracks in the sidewalk where boxthorn and lichen grew. He saw spittle and throw-up, candy wrappers and shoe-flattened chewing gum that seemed to be at one with the asphalt. He saw bowlegs and straight-legs, legs that were covered in hair and legs that were hairless and white as flour. He saw toecaps and tap-shoes, shoes without laces and shoes with laces and clasps. He saw the very fat lady from the last circus to come to town waddling down the sidewalk, a very small fretful boy scurrying behind her, barbers’ scissors and moustache wax clutched in his tiny pretzel-thin fingers. He saw these things and much, much more.