OK, I'm just going to read two more, if I can find them.
Come back to-- there's a poet in Cambridge.
His name is Stephen Tapscott.
And he has a dog named Buddy.
And he has a partner whose name is
Andy, who is not to be confused with my brother Andy.
So the Andy in this poem is that Andy, and Buddy is a dog.
"Buddy."
"Andy sees us to the door and Buddy is suddenly all over him,
weeping, and barking because Andy said, 'walk.'
'Are you going to walk home?' he said to me.
[LAUGHTER]
And Buddy thinks him, and now, and he's wrong.
[LAUGHTER]
He doesn't understand the difference
between sign and symbol like we do,
the thing and the word for the thing, how
we can talk about something when it's not even there,
without it actually happening, the way I talk about John.
Andy meant soon.
He meant me.
As for Buddy, Andy meant later.
When he was 'good and ready,' he said.
Buddy doesn't understand.
He's in a state of agitation and grief, scratching at the door.
If one of us said, 'Andy' when Andy wasn't there,
that silly Buddy would probably jump up barking,
and begin looking for him."