Today my twoleg asked me,
“Oh Scotty! Aren’t you a good dog? You are such a good dog, aren’t you?” He smiled and patted me as he said it.
His words cut to my core.
I sat in the sun and thought about it for five hours. The leaves curled down on the bows of the autumn trees. I panted, and lapped from my water bowl, and resettled. I continued to contemplate and observe. The world breathed around me. The insects went about their inscrutable work, charged with activity, all determined to reach unknowable goals. The roof plinked with heat escaping on the breeze.
As the sky began to change colour into evening, I realised I still could not come up with a satisfactory answer to the question; a question concerning a statement I had so long held to be involuble truth.
Upon considering, I did not know how to consider.
I am a dog and I do not speak English.