“Don’t tell me that two and two is four,” Willy said to his mother when he returned to Brooklyn. “How do we know that two is two? That’s the real question.”
Life wasn’t for sale, and once you found yourself at death’s door, all the noodles in China weren’t going to stop that door from opening.
“You want to know what a dog’s philosophy is, pal? I’ll tell you what it is. Just one sentence: ‘If you can’t eat it or screw it, piss on it.’”
No more kids. No more people under sixteen, especially boy people. They lacked compassion, and once you stripped that quality from a two-leg’s soul, he was no better than a mad dog.
They’ll kill you just for breathing, and when you’re up against that kind of hatred, what’s the use of trying?
He was a dog built for companionship, for the give-an-take of life with others, and he needed to be touched and spoken to, to be part of a world that included more than just himself.