Fear Nothing

perhaps for the first time - grasping the terrible limitations placed on him by his physical nature, he'd sunk into a slough of despondency that almost claimed him permanently. To be intelligent but without the complex larynx and other physical equipment to make speech possible, to be intelligent but without the hands to write or make tools, to be intelligent but trapped in a physical package that will forever prevent the full expression of your intelligence: This would be akin to a person being born deaf, mute, and limbless.
        I watched Orson now with astonishment, with a new appreciation for his courage, and with a tenderness I had never felt before for anyone on this earth.
        He turned from the pool, licking at the water that dripped from his chops, grinning with pleasure. When he saw me looking at him, he wagged his tail, happy to have my attention or 'just happy to be with me on this strange night.
        For all his limitations and in spite of all the good reasons why he should be perpetually anguished, my dog, for God's sake, was better at being Bobby Halloway than I was.
        Does Bobby have a wise strategy for living? Does Orson? I hope one day to have matured enough to live as well by their philosophy as they do.
        Getting up from the bench, I pointed to the sculpture. “Not a scimitar. Not a moon. It's the smile of the invisible Cheshire cat from Alice in Wonderland.”
        Orson turned to gaze up at the masterwork.
        “Not dice. Not sugar cubes,” I continued. “A pair of either the grow-small or grow-big pills that Alice took in the story.”
        Orson considered this with interest. On video, he had seen Disney's animated version of this classic tale.
        “Not a symbol of the earth. Not a blue bowling ball. A big blue eye. Put it all together and what does it mean?”
        Orson looked at me for elucidation.
        “The Cheshire smile is the artist laughing at the gullible people who paid him so handsomely. The pair of pills represent the drugs he was high on when he created this junk. The blue eye is his eye, and the reason you can't see his other eye is because he's winking it. The bronze pile at the bottom is, of course, dog poop, which is intended to be a pungent critical comment on the work - because, as everyone knows, dogs are the most perceptive of all critics.”
        If the vigor with which Orson wagged his tail was a reliable indication, he enjoyed this interpretation enormously.
        He trotted around the entire fountain pool, reviewing the sculpture from all sides.
        Perhaps the purpose for which I was born is not to write about my life in search of some universal meaning that may help others to better understand their own lives - which, in my more egomaniacal moments, is a mission I have embraced. Instead of striving to make even the tiniest mark on the world, perhaps I should consider that, possibly, the sole purpose for which I was born is to amuse Orson, to be not his master but his loving brother, to make his strange, difficult life, as easy, rewarding and full of delight as it can be. This would constitute a purpose as meaningful as most and more noble than some.
        Pleased by Orson's wagging tail at least as much as he seemed to be pleased by my latest riff on the sculpture, I consulted my wristwatch. Less than two hours remained until dawn.
        I had two places I wanted to go before the sun chased me into hiding The first was Fort Wyvern.
        

    * * *
        
        From the park at Palm Street and Grace Drive in the southeast quadrant of Moonlight Bay, the trip to Fort Wyvern takes less than lowing for a paten minutes by bicycle, even allowing for a pace that will not tire your canine brother. I know a shortcut through a storm culvert that runs under Highway 1. Beyond the culvert is an open, ten-foot-wide, concrete drainage channel that continues deep into the grounds of the military base after being bisected by the chain-linker fence - crowned with razor wire - that defines the perimeter of the facility.
        Everywhere along the fence - and througout the grounds of Fort Wyvern - large signs in red and black warn that trespassers will be prosecuted under federal statutes and that the minimum sentence upon conviction involves a fine of no less than ten thousand dollars and a prison sentence of no less than one year. I have always ignored these threats, largely because I know that because of