I
In the modern world a respectable dog requires two things: a chain of modest weight and a profession. My chain I already possess, polished each morning by the mere fact of existing. It is neither ostentatious nor shabby, merely correct—like the watch chain of a minor clerk.
As for the profession, I chose systems administration. A man in spectacles once muttered that dogs are good only for fetching sticks. I fetched his words, chewed them, and left the remains under the desk. Humans may say the keyboard is not designed for paws; true, but then—nothing in this world is designed for us, and yet we endure.
In the photograph (solemn, black, velvet shadow), one could believe I am contemplating the mysteries of electricity. The truth is simpler: I am waiting. Machines stand around me, tall and humming—clerks in stiff collars, whispering over papers no one reads. I do not pry. It is enough to look serious.
On the table sits a cup of coffee. I do not drink it, but everyone else seems to, so I keep mine ceremoniously, like a seal on a decree. Beside it, a bone. This I lick with concentration, as though testing a theorem. The taste is inexhaustible—why men call bones flavorless I cannot comprehend.
The work itself is impressive mostly by its noise. The clicking, the lights, the screens—endless motion which, if paused, would be mourned more for silence than for absence. But I persist. Dignity lies not in usefulness but in the appearance of being busy. This I learned from men.
