“Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.”
—Emily Dickinson
Oh how I love to eat the live-long day, the glorious silver bowl which contains the dry pebbles of chicken and pork stock, almost filled to the brim and I devour it whole, munch by munch, chew by chew, as the human boy pats me on the head and says “Good boy,” for I sat before being served—at the same time, I fetched the red ball, again hearing the phrase “Good boy,” this time by the man; then I am given a rawhide by the woman, who tells me “Go play, Spot,” for I obey her, because I am just a dog, and I lie down upon the carpet to chew my bone, then the boy is coming to disturb me, but I don’t growl because I love him and he’s good to me as are the man and woman, although I despise the man for placing a metallic shovel under my butt to catch my “waste,” which I don’t understand, because I’m just a dog.
A dog’s life is just three basic elements: eating, sleeping, and “pooping,” as the humans call it—we call it “marking territory,” mostly at the fire hydrants, but other dogs mostly trespass and we bark, for our place was disturbed, which we don’t like, and when the firemen come, they spray us with the hose and we growl because we don’t like getting wet and also because we’re just dogs; and we fetch, scratch, bark, woof, pee, chase, bite mailmen, roll over, sit, gain attention, stare, whine, eat more, poop, attack cats, bark more, sleep, roll in the mud, for you see, a dog’s life isn’t just dull and boring, as you may think it is, which is okay, because you are human, which is expected, but humans have a biased, selfish view of life, although the span of our lives is short, between nine and sixteen, pending the breed.
The humans come in to disturb my peace while I chew the rawhide, all three saying “Good boy,” the clanging of the chain, which signifies bad times, but they love me, and mean no harm, so they take me by the collar, the metal line attached, they tell me “Come, Spot,” and I obey, for I am a “Good dog;” they lead me to the prison, I am sad, but I know that they love me, so they open the cage door, release the link, and say “Bye, Spot,” then leave me alone in the prison all day until nightfall when they feed me again, this time a can, a cylinder of plop, brown sludge, also of chicken and pork stock; they play with me, and I go to sleep, having to “go,” but I wait until morning because that is when the cycle begins anew, from the beginning, each and every day, during every waking hour, during the nights, day-in and day-out, continuous, a never-ending repeating schedule until I die.
