He does not think dogs are adorable, or cute or any of those adjectives. He just thinks they are important, somehow. And, he knows that important is the most apposite adjective. The adorable but fades from memory and needs, the important survives.
Now, they don’t need no dogs with all their complex locking systems and alarms, but dogs still do bark. From the end of alleyway it starts; the plague, and behind the big gates with bored guards it flourishes, and a warm hole in the darkness beside him plays the last note of requiem and startles him. And, then it is everywhere. Questions, answers, insinuations, insults, threats; grand proclamations and reminders of past laurels. As if they were all praying for a thief. Something to bark for, because a dog is as important as its bark. You gotta stay relevant, man!
He remembers the one dog who never barked. These are the kind of things that stay with you. The dog who growls and chases you to school every day. You just cannot forget it, like the one boy who always bullied you, or that one teacher who understood you, or the prostitute who was achingly beautiful. People around him tend to put these things into boxes marked unimportant and pretend to forget about it. They postulate that whores cannot breed love, that once you grow up, nobody is going to get away with shitting all over you. The drunken fool sleeping on the pavement orders the dog off the premises, as if he owns it. In his arrogance he has forgotten that even dogs sometimes go into silence self-contemplations. And, they bite!
So, whenever he sees a dog sitting on a bench, he doesn’t order it to step down and grovel at his knees. He says hi, politely and more often than not the dog says it back. Then he sits beside the dog, and they ignore each other, each minding his own business. Because he knows the dog is important and he is too. And, both of them have got their own place in the world. Sometimes, they talk, when the importance of being earnest prevails over the importance of being relevant. In the times of war, when there is nothing precious enough to be saved, brothers survive and win. And, he knows that all important beings, like the dog who bites, the whore who is heartbreakingly beautiful, the father who is a child among his children, the lover who erects a tower to be reflected in the eyes of his beloved, the soldier who knows that he has to become the most efficient killing machine and nothing else; they are all brothers in the times of war, and they will win because they know and they understand and they haven’t forgotten.
A man in the square speaks, every syllable as powerful as wind, as tender as a whistle, as simple as breathing. Another draws lines, deeper than bullet holes, more precise than gasps. A lady sits at the head of a table, as if she has always belonged there, that there is no place, no setting that would make her look more gracious than the humble table. A child runs after a ball, greedier than a beggar, more lustful than a pervert, hungrier than a wolf. And he, he turns his back on the past, on all the grandeurs and glory and failures and catastrophes. He turns his back on all those things said over and over again until they lost their meaning. He turns his back on the hardships, now so common that they have become virtues. He turns his back on prophets, plagues, wars, victories, hunger, charities, renaissance, holy books, philosophers, champions, gods. He turns his back on all those who have been barking at one another, and he smiles at the warm hole in dark who says the last word. And, with his back soaking with the spit of whole world, he sees future with naked eyes. And, he sees the man in square, the man drawing lines, the lady at the table, the child running after the ball. And, he sees dogs running wild in the city, refusing to be petted or perverted with pity. And, they don’t speak a single word, not even a whimper. They just bite, when they are hungry or mad or in love. But, sometimes on a park bench, in the vicinity of brothers they sit back and relax and hurl insults at things they still cherish. Well, even after he destroyed all the big beautiful paintings in war, the great dictator couldn’t find enough bullets to erase all the pencil stubs.