Kitty and the Dog

The house where Kitty did not live was small, yellow, and looked vaguely like a child’s drawing of a house: one blue door in the center; two perfectly symmetrical windows flanking the door; white A-frame roof pointing primly down to the yard. The house was so picturesque as to become grotesque, and passerby shuddered to see it just sitting there day after day, seemingly untouched by the relentless rain that pummeled the rest of the neighborhood. They especially shuddered whenever the occupant of the house, who was not Kitty, appeared and attempted to breach the solid wall of disgust that had arisen between him and his neighbors (to no avail; the wall was unbreachable); the neighbors’ disgust was so complete it extended even down to the objectively lovable, panting dog that sat on the front porch.

This dog was not Kitty’s dog either, but still the dog was an intense matter of interest to her, and on her morning walks she would approach the house from a strategic angle to maximize the time she could eye the dog before it saw her in return (once it saw her, all bets were off and she was forced to scurry away at once). The dog’s life, she saw, was steeped in both freedom and despair; for while it was unchained and largely lounged on the porch most of the day, it was also alone and studiously avoided by every other living being in its vicinity. Kitty was drawn to such a dichotomy; she thought herself in the same mold, though without quite as much fur, and though she enjoyed her walks as a defiant symbol against a lifelong crushing depression, she knew (as did the dog) that simply being able to move around at your own will did not necessarily mean you were free. Such thoughts plagued her and she would lie awake in bed, at times nearly crying with regret, and wonder if the dog was doing the same.

In fact, Kitty found herself so in sympathy with the dog (whose name or sex she refused to learn on the grounds that it would be an unspeakable invasion of privacy) that one day she decided she and the dog should write a book. She had always wanted to write a book, but always some indescribable sensation would arise within her whenever she thought of it that prevented her utterly from giving it another single thought. Now, she realized that it was the sensation of incompleteness. How could she write a book with so little within her, with only two eyes, only one mind? But a story told by man and beast, who had never coexisted as equals in the history of the world: together they knew everything! She buttoned up her coat that morning in a frenzy of anticipation, sure that the dog would see it the same way.

The neighborhood passed her by as she began to walk the familiar route; so engrossed was she in thoughts of the book, she failed to notice disturbances in the familiar scenes that she should have marked at once. She failed to notice, for example, that there were many more cars in the neighborhood than usual, and they all seemed to be driving the same way she was walking; this fact alone would normally have sent her pivoting hurriedly in the opposite direction. She also failed to notice that the windows of each car were all rolled down, and hanging out each one were various panting, slobbering, smiling dogs. The dogs ignored her as they drove by, perhaps so intent upon their destination (or simply so engrossed in enjoying their journey, as we have forgotten how to do) that they did not even see her, as she did not see them.

Thus it was that when she arrived at the yellow house, which always came upon her after a sharp turn, she was stunned to see that the street and driveway were packed with parked cars. After that shock wore off, she received another: the front yard of the yellow house, which had always sat green and empty, was now filled with those same panting, slobbering, smiling dogs. Dogs of every shape, size, and color blanketed the yard, barking and whining and licking one another, jumping and circling around and yipping at each other’s tails with bright, playful sounds. There were no humans in sight, and yet the dogs occupied solely the front yard of the yellow house, straying neither onto the street nor the neighboring yards. The sight was so surreal that she found herself unable to move, transfixed. Were they even real?

Suddenly something bumped into her hip, and she barely stifled a scream. A shaggy border collie had appeared from behind her and now nudged her leg with its head, gently pushing her to the side so it could pass by. “Sorry,” she squeaked automatically.

The border collie took another few steps and paused, then turned and looked back at her. Its mouth moved. “No problem,” it said in a deep baritone, and seemed to smile. “Are you here for the book reading?”

Kitty stared at the dog. She shook her head.

“Ah,” the border collie said. Its head swung towards the yellow house. “Old Sam’s written his first. He’s going to read for everyone, the whole town. The book's amazing; he’s been working on it for years.”

And thus Kitty learned the name and sex of the dog on the front porch. “The dog that lives there wrote a book?”

The border collie laughed, or seemed to laugh. Something like genuine amusement floated through the air. “Yes! A good one. It's about this human that’s been stalking him,” the dog said, then turned and continued on its way.