This is it, the last time I write about the dogs that hound me; this is the last ‘it’. There are too many its, too many its that hound and dog and tug on my trouser cuffs; lapdogs, wee Scotties and gazehounds, the ones that nip and tug at the bells of my trousers, these wee things, these its. I am ontologically unsound, a wee bit rough around the edges. Heidegger spoke nonsense, the hermeneutical circle that whirls and spins out of control, a Dervish, a whirling spinning Dervish. I am studying phenomenology, the study of phonemes and catchalls, these ‘its’ that dog and hound me, spinning and whirling out of control. Language has gotten the upper hand, has taken me for a fool, a childish weakfish fool. Perhaps I am the Scottie, the wee lapdog with Dervish ears and phonemes for eyes, these beady gazehound eyes. Spinning and whirling out of control, defeated to the upper hand of language, the phenomenological ‘it’ that hounds and dogs and nips and tugs at the bells of my trousers. I have had enough; this is the last time I write about the dogs that hound me, the last ‘it’.
