I was dozing by the spring just outside the village when he came by. The day had had little to offer so far, leftovers, idle talk, a domestic quarrel. I thought about moving on.
The sound of his footsteps startled me, but I saw at once that that he was no danger. Just a scrawny old man, a sheep in a ragged wolfskin. But his hands and beard were remarkably clean, and he looked like someone with a sense of humor. He might be a good traveling companion. He sat slowly down by the spring and brought out some bread but he did not look hungry at all, rather sick.
While I was pondering, a young shepherd approached and asked him where he was from. After clearing his throat for a long time, the old man answered in a low, hoarse voice that he was a philosopher, from a place that sounded like Synopsis. He also said that he had been on a visit to a friend and was on his way to the harbor to catch a ship back to Athens – I know that name, a friend of mine has been there, it is a fine place to roam, he says.
As he spoke, the man kept on looking around with a strange expression on his face, which the boy did not seem to notice. He was very polite, the boy, surprisingly well educated for a shepherd. Ignoring the oddity of his counterpart, he gave information on how long it would take to get to the coast and a ship leaving for Athens the next day. Then suddenly the man asked sharply: "And you do understand everything I say?" The boy replied briskly: "I am not a philosopher, but I am smart enough to have a conversation with you. Anyway, I have to go now." He walked away. I must say, I would also have been offended. Except I know that this is what they always like to think, that no one understands them because their thoughts and words are far too complicated for normal people. Well, I am complicated myself, I will tell you that, as a stray who understands human language and could even speak it if I wanted to, which I certainly do not after the trouble I got into last time. Ask me later and I will tell you what I think of priests who proclaim that the sacrifice of a talking animal is the best way to appease Apollon and end a plague.
Nevertheless, and in spite of them being generally arrogant and queer, I have always wanted to be a philosopher's dog. It is no joke. As a philosopher's dog, you have to take care of yourself and you do not get much to eat, but they do not beat you up out of no reason, they do not put you on a chain, and they do not make you guard a shithole or a flock of stinking sheep. Plus, you come around a lot and you get to learn plenty of interesting things. So when I came across this one, Diogenes by the way, I was obviously trying to make friends with him. As soon as the boy was gone, I walked over to him and started the obligatory tail wagging and happy panting. Of course, I kept a safe distance. At a first meeting you never know if they will get scared or harass you just for fun. Fortunately, Diogenes was not a fearful or bullying type, but unfortunately, he did not even look at me, just kept muttering about a burning bush, voices and a strange language.
Philosophers are absent-minded and get angry if you interrupt their train of thought. I understand that. They are thinkers. So I immediately stopped trying to get his attention, sat down and waited until he got up to leave, then followed him quietly, waiting for an opportunity. As we approached the town, I cautiously closed up and eventually trotted alongside him. But even though my tail stroked his legs once or twice and he did not look absent-minded anymore, he did not seem to notice me at all. But although my tail stroked his legs once or twice and he no longer looked absent-minded, he did not seem to notice me at all. This was definitely not good, because he was going to board a ship and I needed him to to insist on taking me with him.
By the time we reached the docks, I was seriously considering addressing my philosopher, as words were probably the only thing that would get his attention. The problem was that there were more and more people around us who, in my experience, were very likely to blab about demons and start a demon hunt, if they heard me talking. Before I could come up with a solution, my philosopher had reached the ship and was negotiating with the captain, who agreed to take him aboard and told him to board early the next morning, but refused to give him a place to sleep. While they were talking, the captain gestured to a sailor and pointed at me. As you can imagine, the guy came down the gangway with a huge stick in his hand and scared me away. That made my decision. On my island, you do not come across a philosopher just like that. If I had missed that chance, I would hardly have got another.
I waited for my philosopher to walk away, joined him, cleared my throat throughly – and barked at him. I could not speak anymore. I tried again and again, without success.
Then I followed Diogenes to the beach, sniffing around for a clue, thinking restlessly why? And why now, when I really needed my language skills more than ever? As he sat down, I sensed the origin of my loss in the shadow of the peer. A man sat on the sand, beautifully dressed, blond curls, soft purple cloak, rich, handsome. I barked at him. He replied matter-of-factly: "You have the wrong attitude, that is why." I snarled and barked again, but he just produced a lyra from under his purple cloak, struck a chord, and disappeared.
That must be Apollon. While the thought sunk in, another one rose to the surface: he had told me why. Why, somehow, but definitely not why now. I had always had my attitude and my gift for languages. You may think that perhaps I had only thought I could speak when in fact I could not. Wrong: When I said I would not talk to humans after the plague thing, I meant I would not let them know it was me. In fact, one of my few pleasures in recent years has been to hide somewhere near people who are fighting, usually married couples, and make impressions of them. Having got pretty good at it, this could be really fun, especially the I-never-said-that and the you-go-on-denying-the-evidence-the-whole-neighborhood-heard-you part. I am proud to say that I have helped a large number of rhetorically deficient couples shell out the spicy core of their otherwise insipid resentments. The last time I had done this was that very day. In the end, the man had become so angry that I had thought it better to leave and retire to the well, where I then met Diogenes, which brings us back to the question Why now? Logical answer: obviously, the gods did not want me to talk to my philosopher, who, by the way, was now sitting in the sand, muttering to himself, and drawing geometric figures with a little stick he had picked up. Why on earth did the gods not want me to talk to him? What was it to them if a mad philosopher and a stray had an exchange of ideas about whatever?
As soon as the question had formed itself in my mind, there was Apollon again, and said: "All right. A good question deserves an answer. Let me tell you what your philosopher is going through right now. He is sitting in a tavern in a country called Spain during a civil war, in 1937 – I know that you do not understand that, do not interrupt me, it is a place far away to the west, almost at the end of the world, and a time in the distant future. Your would-be friend is sitting in front of a wine jug, surrounded by bickering whores and ragged mercenaries, and he is deeply disturbed. Ever since he ran into a burning bush this morning, he has been speaking French – do not interrupt me, I said, it is a barbarian language that does not exist in your time. Your philosopher is very confused, but he is perfectly aware that he is speaking a language he does not understand and that everyone seems to understand him. Now, as far as you are concerned, we do not want you to talk to him. You might be able to help him out of his difficulties." – "And you do not want me to try?" – "No. We want to see how he gets along without your help. As soon as this is over, you will recover your language skills." – "And what about me getting on the ship with him?"
"I am afraid that you will not be boarding this ship anymore than he will. He has not fared well so far, and from the looks of it, he will be drowned by sunrise. I am sorry about that, but you will find another master, eventually." I snapped at him, deprived of all reason to behave like a rational animal. Apollo sighed: "Philosophers are certainly better than other humans, but look again. Why become his dog instead of remaining a stray?"
He was inescapably right. After tossing a handful of sand into the air, my philosopher paused for a moment, then walked towards the water. "He is going to get drowned!" Apollon – but was it really Apollon? – patted me gently. "Yes, I am afraid so", he said, "his philosophy has proved ineffective. He has lost, and he is lost now. We have to let him go." – "Then let me exchange places with him!" He paused, pondering, then asked: "What do you mean? Do you really want to sacrifice yourself for him?" – "No, not at all! I just want to have his body, and he could have mine to go get drowned! He is lost anyway, so what difference does it make?"
I could sense a smile behind his earnest face. "You really are an intelligent dog." – "I am sick and tired of leading a dog's life. Can you do it?" – "Yes. But do you really think a human life would be better for you?" – "How would I know what it is like to be human? I just want to be a philosopher, since you will not let me have the one I wanted for a master. I want to be what I cannot have. If I cannot save him, I will make the best of his death." – "You are a philosopher after all." – "Yeah, so? Am I going to be a human?" – "You already are, my friend. Can't you see?"
Yes. I was standing upright on two legs, had arms to raise, hands to touch a human face, and a mouth to speak. The seashore felt so empty. I looked ahead. My philosopher was gone. I searched the water and thought I had caught a glimpse of a small brim of white linen floating just below the calm surface. But if he had been turned into a dog, he would no longer be wearing his tunic, because I had it now, so it must have been an illusion.
My back felt like I had been on my feet for ages. I sat down, looked up and knew immediately I had made a big mistake. My eyes crossed space and time westwards, faster and faster, gazing farther and farther, flying low over an endless sea, passing a strait, rushing over miles and miles of dark waves, and finally focusing a city that came closer, high, as high as I had ever seen one, crystal transparent, sky piercing towers, their tops invisible in reddish clouds, bridges held by hanging chains of sparkling pearls, and a stinking harbor, muddy black water, a rough voice shouting "All American citizens, please this way!", and no way back, I had missed the right turn, but where? When?
The water was deep, so deep.