If Pavlov's Dog Could Speak...

Dear Master,

Thank you. The whole world knows you today because you made me drool. Well, your door bell did, which is even more commendable, I guess. With food like that coming up next, who wouldn’t, right? So thanks. I mean my wife tells me I wouldn’t even drool over her like that, you know. But that’s a different story I mean women and all. They’re all the same.

Yeah, I know, I am a dog.

So I guess what I am saying is that I have this image of being Man’s best friend and then you come along and use me and oh… sorry I meant you made sure I get my photograph splashed all over and then you already know about the whole HMV image of being the guy in front of the gramophone, faithfully listening to “His Master’s Voice” and all. I mean I feel like drooling over myself because I’m so faithful and all you know!

You did a lot for me. Made me aware of what makes me drool. How much. You had so much to say about how to drool and when to and when not to and what kind of sound to drool over and what not.

Dear God WHY?

How does it matter? What because you were lonely or something or really wanted to drool but you couldn’t coz oh my God that’s what dogs do, not humans? What were you like too scared or too sophisticated for it? Or was it because I am supposed to be simpler and by some strange twisted conviction I am supposed to be easier to understand than you are? Oh puhleeze! Why couldn’t you just cut off that beard and grow a life instead?

You played with me. You manipulated my feelings. My basic drives were for you to sit and watch. And why? Because I sat quietly through it all? I mean look at what you did and tell me it makes sense for me to get the crap beaten out of me because I bark like that? Oh and was it some distant smart alec cousin of yours who came up with “Barking dogs seldom bite”? ‘Coz I’m telling you right now, my hackles are raised and that growl you hear isn’t your stomach calling out for a burger. Don’t mess with these fangs baby.

Anyway, I’m done. Yeah I don’t hold it in like you do. I don’t sit and bide my time and then pounce smoothly on some unsuspecting ignoramus. And I know you’re gonna go around saying I didn’t strategise and I lost the fight because I gave up too easily but then, admit it, we’re all fighting.

I don’t know what we did to you. I don’t know why we got clubbed as stupid. Who cares about a neocortex anyway? We do fine with the brains we got.

I don’t want to start a fight with you. And you haven’t bought me in exchange of those 15 seconds of fame.

And I don’t care if I’m sweet or cute or dependable or reliable or a good pet or faithful or sincere or loyal.

If it’s you and me marooned on an island, it won’t be long before you cook up your own personal brand of Hot Dog and that’s apparently what’s natural.

So go find yourself a job instead of amusing yourself with playmates “too weak” to fight back or find a voice.

It’s not like I want to drool for you. I don’t have a choice.

You haven’t won.

And I hope you learn how to use your kind one day. What are you scared of anyway? That you’ll relate to their need for privacy and want to not use them? Oh don’t worry. You’ll find the courage to join the fight one day and quit being such a fence sitter.

But you know what’s funny? You are living your life through me. You suffer from the delusion that I am you and you are me. That I’m that part of you that you’ve smothered and must now socialise. That you can make me and break me.

I didn’t sign up for this.

But just the same, like always, I gave you something to talk about, didn't I?