Tuesdays eluded Randall. Not to say he couldn't find Tuesdays on a calendar, or experienced six day weeks instead of seven; more that Tuesdays hid around corners and in shadows just out of his grasp. Every week, the second day was empty, a void that absorbed momentum and hope and ambition.
They weren't miserable days, or days of anguish -- rather vacancies surrounded on one side by Monday and Wednesday on the other. From the moment Randall woke, Tuesdays became an indistinct collection of hours saturated with unanswered emails and stagnant voice messages. He'd never been able to make them count in the grand scheme or make them functional on any level beyond successfully executed bodily functions, and even that occasionally proved fruitless.
Towards the afternoon, he'd begin pondering the nature of happiness and the true route to satisfaction. It occurred to him that his dog was always happy, always ready to accept each day without expectation, and always fulfilled at the end. Perhaps there was something to that; perhaps she understood things that people had forgotten long ago. Maybe dogs and cats and dolphins and kookaburras and bonobos all retained some glorious perception masked in humanity by perpetual self-awareness. Randall wondered sometimes if material needs and terrestrial desires were the root of his own allergy to accomplishment and attraction to mediocrity.
It then occurred to him that his dog experienced no greater ecstasy than the moment in which she rolled around in another dog's shit, and perhaps this was a flawed model.