I Met a Rock Star

a Socks interview

I’d heard the name before I met him.

Flamèche.

A name whispered with a certain reverence: sold-out arenas, hotel-room scandals, laser-in-smoke-cloud comeback tours.

The name, I later learned, referred to his flame-colored hair and magnificent 1980s rock-star bangs.

But before I saw the hair, I caught the scent.

Musky and mysterious, with notes of basil-drizzled barbecued chicken. The fragrance of a creature who has lived.

When I was finally granted an audience, I found him in his private suite. I approached respectfully. Flamèche ignored me and continued eating clover. This, I assumed, was normal celebrity behavior.

I returned the next day. Again, he ignored me. I watched. He ate.

I watched some more.

He ate some more.

I began to suspect that Flamèche might be one of those artists who prefers to communicate through his work. His work, apparently, was consuming astonishing quantities of vegetation.

At first, my humans seemed uncertain about my intentions. To be fair, so was I.

Did I want to play with Flamèche?

Possibly.

Did I want to chase him?

Maybe.

Did I want to understand him?

Definitely.

It’s been a long time since I’ve spent much time with other creatures. There is the Famous Cat in our yard, of course, with whom I maintain a vigorous professional rivalry. And there are the enormous birds who wander through the garden behaving as though they own the property.

But Flamèche was different. He was right there.

Close enough to see. Close enough to talk to.

It was the most profound conversation I had all week.

The humans laughed and claimed we were simply making distressed noises at one another. But they can be remarkably insensitive to artistic expression.

One afternoon, our relationship stepped to the next level. Flamèche stopped eating. He turned. He walked over to the side of his suite and pressed his nose against the bars. I stepped forward. Soon we were nose to nose, separated only by the security arrangements insisted upon by management.

“Wheek.”

“HmmHmmRee.”

“WheekReep.”

“HmmHmmRee.”

At first we simply repeated ourselves.

Then we began to listen. He wheeked. I whined. He rose in pitch. I followed.

Then our voices locked together. Harmonizing!

For a brief moment, a guinea pig and a dog became a duet.

Flamèche comes from a very different musical tradition, but I found my way to the right notes.

After that, things changed.

As the days passed, I became a regular visitor.

Whenever someone sat with me near Flamèche’s suite, I would gradually and discreetly encourage them to move aside, inching them away so I could occupy my place, pressing my entire body against the wall of his suite.

I knew my time studying the master’s work was ticking away.

His dedication was inspiring. Hour after hour, he remained focused on the essentials: leaves, hay, pellets, and occasionally more leaves.

Fame had not changed him.

If I’m being honest, there remained a small part of me that occasionally wondered what he might taste like. I am a dog, not a saint. But that was hardly the important thing. Mostly, I just wanted to be near him.

Near the music.

Near the hair.

Whenever I was allowed into the room, I would make my way to his suite and settle beside it.

Sometimes we would exchange observations about life.

Sometimes we sang together. Composing, really.

It’s difficult to say where music ends and friendship begins.

Then, just as our friendship was beginning to develop, Flamèche departed.

I assume he was recording a new album. Perhaps our collaboration had inspired him, if I were to be so bold. The house feels quieter without him.

Still, I hope he returns soon. There are many things I have yet to ask. And many songs we have yet to perform.

If not, there are always the mice.

A musician must continue to seek collaborators wherever he can find them.

-Socks, June 2026

Here’s the duet: