The dogs are outside, bored, wanting the company of other dogs. Are there other bored dogs who share the same situation? While they are in this situation, is there a person inside their house who is writing about the boredom of their dogs?

So there are two of us then, unknown to each other, right at this moment, writing about our bored dogs.

I'll take my dogs to the dog park, and walk with them as they pick up scents of other dogs and other people.

I think of the scent of boredom, of its taste, appearance, sound, and the sensation it lays on the fingers.

Uncreative associations plague me: snoring; mashed potatoes with no salt or butter or gravy; the color gray.

But wait: the color of plastic wrap. Better. Then there’s the smell of plastic wrap’s eye-glazing expostulations about how food would spoil if it wasn't for them, and how you can draw a direct line from them to salt.

“Salt was the first preservative, you know,” they say.

We must go to the dog park.