one good world is worth a thousand bitches

August is like February: miserable. Worn out weather, wetly pushing forward, and then suddenly a wind which tells you that the next season will be here sooner than you think. In beach towns across the Atlantic when wealthy families feel that wind they know their vacations are over. Time for the tactical retreat to the suburbs: fill up the SUV, scream at your skinny kids. That dog you befriended over the summer is ABSOLUTELY NOT coming home with us. I don’t care if — Hey. Hey. Stop crying. Stop crying and LISTEN TO ME. That dog is NOT getting in this car.

So there’s one more stray dog in the world. And maybe because this stray has big eyes and no mange (yet), or maybe just because she’s a fool, a woman in the neighborhood takes pity on it. Not that she goes out of her way to buy kibble or treats. But if she’s making burgers, for example, she’ll grill an extra patty and leave it outside. She’s far out enough that her neighbors neither notice or care. But then she begins to notice her family members also turning into dogs.

At first it’s not a big deal. The kids have always had bad table manners, and they’ve never been able to carry a complete conversation. One morning she notices that her husband is looking very scruffy, and she says, “you need a good shave,” and instead of responding he just licks her left cheek wetly. So that’s cute. But as time passes the truth is difficult to deny: her family is dogs.

It’s not convenient. Sometimes the Jack Russell Terrier will get into nasty fights with the Alaskan Malamute, knocking over water glasses and little glinting bottles of perfume. But it’s also not that big of a deal? She puts the makeup away and keeps the chocolate out of reach. And nobody has ever helped her with the housework anyways. So it’s all fine, more or less. Until the Golden Retriever, now 17, begins cutting its wrists.

Midnight. Cruel blades of bathroom light. Golden baby. I remember when you were born. Your daddy didn’t know how to hold you. “So fragile,” he said. “I can’t.” But I could. Then and forever. Because you are my baby. Then and forever. Golden Retriever. My good girl.

She drags the dog to therapy. She drags herself to therapy. The therapist is an ethnically ambiguous woman around her age, except the therapist has taken much better care of her physical appearance. She has a blowout and a well-modulated voice. She says it’s fine to feel bad, but you have to understand that you’re not responsible for anybody’s mental state. The only mental state you are responsible for is your own. If you attempt to assume responsibility for someone else’s mental state, you are not only subverting their agency but also doing this to the detriment of your own self.

“Also,” adds the therapist, after a moment’s pause, “This is a dog we’re talking about, yes?”

It’s very good advice, all very right and reasonable. You have to let go. Let go and live your life. Externally the woman nods. But internally she turns to the wall and wails. Live your life?! This IS my life! If I had another life I would go live that one. But the only life I have is here. My house. Our stupid baka suburban home. A Jack Russell Terrier, an Alaskan Malamute, and a Golden Retriever. And my husband the mutt.

There is a notion of “rock bottom”. As in: you suffer, and then you touch “rock bottom”, your big hairy toes grip the rocks, and you are propelled upwards into light. This is inaccurate. Trying to change your life does not feel like floating. It feels like pushing your four limbs to try and reach the other side of the river before night. And all the while the current threatens to sweep you away to sea. Frankly it’s astounding how quickly humans can get used to any suboptimal way of living.

Seconds, hours, days, years. Making the best life we can with what we have. Summon forth the effort to brush your teeth. If not nights, then mornings. If not toothpaste, then mouthwash. If not real tableware, then a paper plate. And then it’s February again and you’re driving back from therapy. And maybe you think — you know I haven’t been to the beach in a while. Might be nice. Just to see the water.

So she’s on the boardwalk, and the man on a nearby bench is feeding his dog Cheetos. The man is .. homeless ? and the dog is some sort of dog. The dog waits patiently while the man carefully licks all the orange powder off each Cheeto before delicately placing it in the dog’s mouth. Strange communion wafer.

Then the dog barks, and the woman understands what it’s trying to say, because by this point she too has become a dog.

“Your life is not the life which is the best possible,” says the dog. “Your life is a life which contains a whole range of good and evil, progress and poverty, misery and joy. But even if all you felt every day was agony, your life would be worth something. Must be. Because if life were worthless, then evil would subtract nothing from it.”

The dog briefly pauses to accept a damp de-dustified Cheeto. “There is a degree of distance between every being and every other. Every plant, every peer, every dog and daughter. Those who do not love do not mind the distance. But it is not true that those who do love do mind the distance. To love purely is to consent to distance. It is to adore this distance between ourselves and that which we love.”

Then the dog falls silent. The man also turns to look at her. And in their gaze she finds herself washed in a marvelous marvelous certainty. Spring — spring is gonna come. We’ll live through spring and summer. We’ll live through the long, long days and nights. Another August. Another February. We’ll look back and see it was all love. Then and forever.

She closes her eyes. The man pats the top of her forehead. He brings his finger to her mouth.

Good girl, he says. Good girl.