Words Dogs Know

J.R. Carpenter

home Home is where they keep the kib­ble. Home is both the ori­gin and the ter­mi­nus of the walk. Locus of the sound­est sleeps, at home all scents are known.

cyber­space The place where peo­ple go while dogs are sleeping.

infin­ity In the time between sleep and wak­ing there is the great noth­ing­ness of the nap.

con­quest The ball is a liv­ing thing. It is not enough to give chase, catch the ball in mid-air and bring it back for another throw. A vic­tory lap is in order. And then give it a good shake to make sure it knows it has been conquered.

con­tin­gency If an orange ball has just been lost, under a fence, say — look around. Maybe there’s a busted ten­nis ball nearby. Maybe there’s a stick just wait­ing to be found.

phe­nom­e­nol­ogy  When wind hap­pens it hap­pens in the ears. When rain hap­pens all the smells are hid­den. When thun­der hap­pens it hap­pens inside the heart and head and there is no hid­ing from the fear.

con­sump­tion If it is put in front of you, eat it. If it is on the floor, eat it. If it is on the ground, eat it. If it is dead, sniff it care­fully, and then eat it. Even if it smells like shit, eat it. Even if it is shit, eat that too.

cor­rup­tion One way to make a walk last longer is to walk slower. Stop every­where, sniff every­thing and then run a lit­tle as if to catch up, as if you’re not up to any­thing at all. But don’t push it, or they’ll put you on the leash.

secu­rity The leash makes pedes­tri­ans feel more secure. Barking keeps the bal­cony free from cats. Bark if the door­bell rings. Everyone knows evil smells feline, and dan­ger rings before it enters.

trust When they say: “We’ll be right back,” they may not come right back, but they always do come back even­tu­ally. When they say: “It’s all right,” it may not be all right yet, but it will be soon. When they say: “Stay,” for no appar­ent rea­son, it’s best to just do it. Who knows, maybe there’s a car coming.

phan­tas­mago­ria  Dog-shaped blurs dot the dis­tant hori­zon, man-shaped shad­ows move through the night time, foot­steps fall down from the ceil­ing, dis­em­bod­ied voices float up through the floor­boards, ghost scents waft on the wind.

work Play is a re-enactment of work. The ball is a bird, see? Shake it, make sure it’s dead. These sticks need round­ing up. Who left this branch here? The work dog is ill suited to tag­ging along to the laun­dro­mat and no good at all at pac­ing the video store aisles — all the movies smell the same.

per­for­mance  If you bring them the ball they will throw it. If you stare at the door they will open it. If you come when you are called, you will usu­ally get some­thing out of it. If you lose a ball under the couch they will find it for you. People are easy to train.

trans­fig­u­ra­tion When the woman puts mas­cara on, it means she’s leav­ing the house. When the man puts big boots on, it means the alley has been erased by snow. When the black cat has a white strip on its back, be care­ful! The world can change in an instant.

melan­cho­lia When play­time is over and the long nap in the dark is over, and the early morn­ing walk is over, some­times in a hurry, some­times even in the rain, the peo­ple shut the door behind them and the dog is left to his lonesome.