The dog as philosopher with the invisible hand of truth leading him around. Hurry up, the hand seemed to say, and stay on the sidewalk. Meanwhile, I chased away a philosopher who was peeing on my tires. Every night under the ripening mulberry tree those hexagram paw tracks, the fruit like dark little brains on the gravel. I turned the light on and he ran away, the mongrel.
The dog is now in a fence condemned to be free. It’s funny how, as a dog, you can dig all day for no purpose at all. You can look up the leash and see what’s tugging you around. It’s nothing. It’s nothing you can name.
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