Cynical

I was dozing by the spring just outside the village when he came along. The day hadn't had much to offer so far: leftovers, idle talk, a domestic squabble. I was thinking of moving on.

The sound of his footsteps startled me, but I saw at once that he was no danger. Just a scrawny, ragged old man. Clean hands and beard, though, and the look of someone with a sense of humor.

He sat down slowly by the spring, brought out some bread. But he didn't look hungry at all – more like sick.

While I was weighing him up, a young shepherd came by and asked where he was from. After clearing his throat for an unreasonably long time, the old man answered in a low, hoarse voice that he was a philosopher, from a place that sounded like sneezing. He added that he had been visiting a friend and was on his way to the harbour to catch a ship back to Athens – I know that name; a friend of mine has been there. He says it's a fine place to roam.

As he spoke, the man kept looking around with a strange expression, which the boy didn't seem to notice. Ignoring the oddity of his counterpart, the shepherd explained how long it would take to reach the coast, and mentioned a ship leaving for Athens the next day. Then, out of nowhere, the old man snapped: “And you do understand everything I say?” The boy replied briskly: “I'm not a philosopher, but I'm smart enough to have a conversation with you. Anyway, I have to go now.” And he walked off.

I have to admit: I'd have been offended too. Except I know this type. They love to imagine that no one understands them because their thoughts and words are far too subtle for normal people. Well. I'm subtle myself. I'm a stray who understands human language – and could even speak it, if I wanted to – which I most certainly do not, after the trouble I got into last time. Ask me later and I'll tell you what I think of priests who claim the sacrifice of a talking animal is the best way to appease Apollo and end a plague.

Still: arrogant and peculiar as they are, I have always wanted to be a philosopher's dog. It's no joke. As a philosopher's dog you don't get much to eat and you have to fend for yourself, but they don't beat you for no reason, they don't chain you up, and they don't make you guard a shithole or a flock of stinking sheep. Plus, you get around. You hear things. You learn.

So when I came across this one I did what any sensible stray would do and tried to make friends. As soon as the boy was gone, I walked over and performed the obligatory tail-wagging and happy panting. At a safe distance, obviously. On a first meeting you never know whether they'll get scared, or decide to harass you for sport. Fortunately, my philosopher wasn't a fearful or bullying type – but unfortunately, he didn't even look at me. He just kept muttering about a burning bush, voices, and a strange language.

Philosophers are absent-minded, and they get annoyed if you interrupt their train of thought. Fine. They're thinkers. So I stopped trying to catch his eye, sat down, and waited. When he got up to leave, I followed at a distance until the town came into view. Then I closed in cautiously and trotted alongside him.

My tail brushed his leg once or twice. He no longer looked absent-minded. And still he didn't seem to notice me at all. That was bad. He was going to board a ship, and I needed him to insist on taking me with him.

By the time we reached the docks, I was seriously considering addressing my philosopher – because words were probably the only thing that would get his attention. The problem was the crowd: in my experience, the moment a dog speaks in public, someone starts babbling about demons and you're in for a hunt.

Before I could settle on a plan, my philosopher was already bargaining with the captain. The captain was not inclined, at first, but my philosopher's name – Diogenes – changed his mind. He told Diogenes to be back at sunrise.

While they were talking, the captain gestured to a sailor and pointed at me. The sailor came down the gangway with a huge stick and drove me off.

That made my decision. On my island, you don't just stumble across a philosopher. If I missed this chance, I might never get another.

I waited for Diogenes to walk away, joined him, cleared my throat thoroughly – and barked. I could not speak. I tried again and again. Nothing.

Then I followed him to the beach, pacing, sniffing for a clue, thinking: why? And why now – when I needed my language more than ever? When he sat down in the sand, I sensed the source of my loss in the shadow of the pier. A man was sitting there – beautifully dressed, blond curls, a soft purple cloak. Rich. Handsome. I barked at him. He replied, matter-of-fact: “You have the wrong attitude. That's why.” I snarled. He produced a lyre from under his cloak, struck a chord – and disappeared.

That must have been Apollo.

While that thought sank in, another one floated up: he had told me why. Sort of. Not why now. I had always had my attitude. I had always had my gift for languages. And don't tell me I'd only imagined it: when I said I wouldn't talk to humans after the plague business, I meant I wouldn't let them know it was me.

In fact, one of my few pleasures in recent years has been to hide near people who are fighting – usually married couples – and do impressions of them. Once you get good at it, it's glorious. The “I never said that,” the “you keep denying the evidence the whole neighbourhood heard,” all of it. I'm proud to say I've helped a large number of rhetorically deficient couples dig out the spicy core of their otherwise insipid resentments.

The last time I did it was that very day. In the end, the man got so angry that I decided it was wiser to leave and retire to the spring – where I then met Diogenes. Which brings us back to the question: why now?

The obvious answer was: the gods didn't want me talking to my philosopher. He was sitting there muttering, drawing geometric figures in the sand with a little stick, and I – for once – had nothing useful to contribute. Why would the gods care if a mad philosopher and a stray exchanged ideas? What was it to them?

No sooner had that thought formed than Apollo was there again. “All right,” he said. “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 you don't understand that – don't interrupt me. It's far to the west, almost at the end of the world, and it's 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 – don't interrupt me, I said – a barbarian language that doesn't exist in your time. He knows perfectly well he's speaking a language he does not understand, and he knows 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 don't want me to try?”

“No. We want to see how he gets along without your help. When this is over, you'll recover your language.”

“And what about getting on the ship with him?”

“You won't be boarding this ship any more than he will,” Apollo said. “He has not fared well so far, and from the looks of it he'll be drowned by sunrise. I'm sorry about that, but you'll find another master, eventually.”

I snapped at him – all reason gone. Apollo sighed. “Philosophers may be better than other humans,” he said, “but look again. Why become his dog instead of remaining a stray?”

He was infuriatingly right. Diogenes paused, tossed a handful of sand into the air, then walked towards the water. “He's going to drown!”

Apollo – but was it really Apollo? – patted me gently. “Yes,” 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, considering. “What do you mean? Do you really want to sacrifice yourself for him?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “I want his body. He can have mine and go drown. He's lost anyway – what difference does it make?”

I felt a smile behind his earnest face. “You really are an intelligent dog.”

“I'm sick and tired of living a dog's life. Can you do it?”

“Yes. But do you really think a human life would be better?”

“How would I know what it's like to be human? I just want to be a philosopher, since you won't let me have the one I wanted as a master. I want to be what I can't have. If I can't save him, I'll make the best of his death.”

“You are a philosopher after all.”

“Yeah. So am I going to be human?”

“You already are, my friend. Can't you see?”

Yes. I was standing upright on two legs. I had arms to raise, hands to touch a human face, and a mouth to speak. The seashore felt suddenly empty. I looked out. My philosopher was gone.

I searched the water and thought I 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 ached as if I'd been standing for hours. I sat down, looked up – and knew immediately I had made a terrible mistake.

My eyes crossed space and time westwards, faster and faster, flying low over an endless sea, passing a strait, rushing over miles of dark waves, and finally locking onto a city that came closer: high, higher than anything I had ever seen – crystal towers, sky-piercing, their tops lost in reddish cloud; bridges hung on chains of sparkling pearls; a stinking harbour of muddy black water; a rough voice shouting: “All American citizens, please this way!”

No way back. I had missed the right turn – but where? When?

The water was deep, so deep.