II
But life cannot be all data centers. A dog who only works becomes a clerk; a clerk who never sees the sea becomes a philosopher, and philosophers—everyone knows—are fed poorly. At sea—yes, the picture where I stand on my hind legs like a small admiral—the wind smells of distant meat.
The water is a serious, bureaucratic element; it stamps and files every wave, assigning each to its proper drawer, never losing one. I peer toward the horizon and consider emigration to the land of infinite sausages. They say such a country does not exist, but men also once said there were no talking dogs. The sailboat passes, pale as a debtor’s face, obviously unaware of my responsibilities. I forgive it. One must forgive strangers; they cannot know that I am Rolex, and that I am busy improving maritime security through vigilant staring.
My tail is at attention, though the sailors do not notice. That is the tragedy of watchmen: the best guard is the one no one thanks. And yet, if a single pigeon were to land improperly on deck, I would be summoned at once, praised for foresight. Such is justice in this world: late, conditional, and accompanied by bread crumbs.