IV
On land I practice diplomacy. The goats—those provincial intellectuals with beards—receive me behind their fence. We exchange opinions on grass. They are pro; I am neutral. It is difficult to argue with goats, for their convictions are based not on logic but on chewing.
We discuss freedom; they say it is the ability to chew slowly without interruption. I say it is the right to choose between a walk and a nap without explanation. They find this frivolous. I find them provincial. They, in turn, find me suspicious. Mutual misunderstanding—such is the basis of international relations.
I note with some envy the calm with which they ignore the world. If a man appeared with a knife, they would simply bleat and continue chewing. Whereas I, Rolex, am bound by honor to bark, to lunge, to make a scene—always the actor, never the spectator. Diplomacy is tiring. I part amicably, each convinced the other leads a tragic life.