Fifteen Dogs

4. MAJNOUN’S END

Five years had passed, five years from the moment Hermes and Apollo had entered the veterinary clinic and changed the dogs they found there. Of the fifteen dogs, only two were left: Majnoun, who was now eight, and Prince, who was seven.

Five years after Majnoun had come into her life, Nira thought of him as her closest friend. Though they did not speak — or not exactly — she felt that Majnoun understood her as well as her husband did. Perhaps better. Over the years, there had been fewer disagreements with Majnoun than with Miguel. But then, Miguel was her mate. She hid nothing from him, nor he from her. Their love was still strong, but it was mired in the day-to-day. With Majnoun, Nira could be herself in a way that brought relief from the company of her husband. It is a cruel irony, then, that a disagreement with Majnoun would prove disastrous for all three of them.

There had always been issues with Majnoun, of course. For instance, Nira could not understand why he persisted in eating the shit of other dogs. He knew that it upset her. On any number of occasions she had begged him to control himself.

— It makes me ill to see you do it, she’d say.

Majnoun would nod and agree not to do it again, but, really, it was like asking a child not to eat any of the cakes left out at a patisserie. It was cruel to expect him to forbear, though out of consideration for her, Majnoun would forbear for months at a time until, inevitably, he’d forget her feelings and pounce on some fragrant deposit. So the whole cycle of revulsion (hers) and self-control (his) would begin again. This was a conflict that, Nira assumed, arose from Majnoun’s nature. Majnoun was a dog, a sensitive and intelligent dog, but a dog just the same. For long stretches, she managed to convince herself he was other than what he was, then reminders of his nature would break the delusion.

There were other problems that, Nira assumed, had their origins in Majnoun’s culture as opposed to his nature. For instance, she thought it distasteful for male dogs to mount females en masse, each waiting his turn. Majnoun did not even pretend to take her distaste seriously. A bitch in heat was a bitch in heat. There could be no argument about that and, as the bitches themselves wished it, he could not see why it shouldn’t be done. She had to admit he had a point. She could imagine herself in heat, craving the friction of anonymous intercourse, but she was convinced that if she could influence Majnoun’s attitude she might improve the life of female dogs by teaching Majnoun a respect he could pass on.

The line between natural (the things Majnoun couldn’t help doing) and cultural (the things he could) was neither clear nor fixed. This was easy to forget in the heat of a dispute. It was just as easy to forget that Majnoun was not hers to improve. But, in any case, their fateful disagreement came over an idea that was impossible to put in one column (nature) or the other (culture), belonging as it did in both. More: it was an idea that mattered to Nira as much as it did to Majnoun: status.

As far as Majnoun was concerned, Miguel was the leader of their little pack. This thought annoyed Nira. She refused to allow that she was somehow subservient to her husband. There was no convincing Majnoun otherwise, however. He saw how she deferred to Miguel. He heard the echelon in their tones of voice (hers inevitably deferential), saw it in how they walked together or ate at the table. Their unequal status was so clear that it seemed to Majnoun as if Nira were trying to improve her station by feigning ignorance.

Majnoun’s relationship to Miguel was nuanced, but not complex. He would have given his life for Nira, not Miguel. This was at least in part because Miguel was the head of their household and Majnoun looked to him for protection. Miguel, who did not believe Majnoun was gifted or unusual, would get down on the ground and play with Majnoun, pushing his head from side to side, chasing him, taking his chew toys away from him and throwing them about, roughly scratching Majnoun’s belly and flanks. This was all, no doubt, undignified, but it was a pleasure to compete with Miguel for possession of a ball, to bark unselfconsciously when Miguel pushed him, to jump up on Miguel in a play at dominance. Nira tried to play with him, too, of course. She would throw the chewy, red ball around when they were outside, but you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. She couldn’t bring herself to say

— Go get it, boy! Go get it!

as if the ball were the most important thing on earth. For one thing, it seemed insulting to pretend that the ball mattered when she and Majnoun both knew it did not. In the end, Miguel was like a strong dog whom Majnoun both feared and admired, so he was offended when Nira questioned her husband’s status.

Unfortunately, Nira would not leave the matter alone. One day, she asked whom he thought was next after Miguel, if Miguel was the, as she put it, ‘grand high poobah.’ This was, on the face of it, an offensive question, but her sneering tone was especially galling. As far as Majnoun was concerned, he and Nira were of equal status. Her question amounted to a denial of this. He let her know his feelings as forcefully as he could without attacking. He growled, his teeth bared, his tail lowered. It was a distressing moment for both of them, but Nira’s question had been unspeakably rude. For days after their contretemps, Majnoun refused to acknowledge her presence, turning away from food she put down, leaving a room whenever she entered it. Nira realized that she had unwittingly gone too far, but he would not accept her apologies. For Majnoun, there seemed but two ways open to him: stay with someone who had challenged his status or leave for good. If he stayed, he would have to teach Nira to respect him. New to the ways of argument, he did not know how to do this without violence. But he would have died a thousand times rather than hurt Nira. And so, seeing no other way, Majnoun chose exile. He left the house without letting her know that he was gone for good.

This was the fateful moment, of course. A number of the gods having wagered on Majnoun’s death, there was, on the part of those who wished him to die happy, interest in a reconciliation. Were it not for Zeus’s edict, any number of them might have stepped in. As it was, none dared do anything openly. But Hermes, nursing his resentment, was upset by the impasse between Majnoun and Nira. He had intervened to save Prince, not Majnoun, but he was among those who believed Majnoun, at very least, could meet a good death.

— My poor, dear brother, said Apollo. There goes your last chance. The dog will be miserable without the woman, don’t you agree?

— When it comes to mortals, answered Hermes, not even we know the future.

Apollo laughed.

— Spoken like a human, he said.

Though Hermes laughed, the insult stung. And so, despite his father’s warning, the god of thieves and translators intervened in Majnoun’s life. Dreams being his preferred medium, he appeared to Majnoun while the dog slept.

+

Majnoun had not gone far from home when he suddenly felt tired. He barely managed to find a safe place before he fell asleep. He began to dream at once.

He was in a meadow bounded on four sides by darkness. The meadow was covered in grass so green it looked painted. He himself was beneath a tree whose bole extended up as far as could be seen, disappearing into a single white cloud. The place was not frightening but it was somehow dangerous. Majnoun crouched down, ready to spring or to jump away from whatever came out of the darkness. What came was a poodle as black as he was but much more imposing.

— I haven’t much time, said the dog.

It spoke no particular language. Its words were in Majnoun’s mind, like a strange idea.

— You must not leave Nira. Your life is with her.

— I cannot go back, said Majnoun.

— I understand your predicament, but you have misinterpreted Nira’s words. Humans do not think as you do.

— As we do, said Majnoun.

— As you do, said Hermes. I am one who wishes you well, but I am not a dog. Return to Nira. You will never misinterpret her words again, nor she yours.

— How can you know that? asked Majnoun.

— I have said it and so it will be, answered Hermes.

With that, the dream ended and Majnoun woke. He was on a lawn near High Park, not far from the arched entrance on Parkside, not far from where the streetcars turn around. Majnoun had had dreams before, of course, but none had ever been as vivid. He could recall its every detail and, despite himself, he wondered if he’d been dreaming at all.

The answer came soon enough. Walking along Parkside, Majnoun was assaulted by music coming from a car radio that was turned up loud. Majnoun heard the words

In the golden tent of early morning

when the sky has turned its back

when the sky has turned its back and isn’t listening

when the scallops stand upright on their hinges …

Then the car took off and he could no longer make the lyrics out.

There was nothing unusual about the loud music. Men in automobiles often tried to hurt one with noise. But Majnoun suddenly understood the lyrics, mysterious though they were. He understood that lyrics were not meaningful the way human words usually are, that lyrics were a ground where sense, rhythm and melody engaged. At times, sense won out; at times, rhythm; at times, melody. At times, the three things were at war, the way emotion, instinct and intelligence were at war within him. At times, the three were in harmony. The lyrics he’d heard suddenly struck him as a brilliant skirmish and, like someone who finally gets a joke, Majnoun sat and laughed, laughing as Benjy once had: gasping for breath while a feeling of pleasure escaped from him.

Nor did his newly acquired understanding stop there. Majnoun found, as he walked in High Park, that he could easily recognize the intent behind words he overheard. He was amazed, for instance, to hear a woman say to the man beside her

— I’m sorry, Frank. I just can’t go on anymore …

her words an attempt to comfort and wound at the same time. How complex and vicious humans were! And how strange to suddenly appreciate the depths of their feelings. Whereas previously, he had thought them stunted, clumsy and unwilling to grasp the obvious, Majnoun now realized humans were almost as deep as dogs, though in their own particular way.

Wishing to see if he would understand Nira in this way, he returned home.

He had not been gone long, two hours at most. The back door was still unlocked. He stood on his hind legs, pushed down on the handle’s metal thumb-piece. The door opened and he went in. There, as if waiting for him, was Nira.

— Jim, she said. I thought you’d left us.

Majnoun caught every nuance. He caught her contrition, her worry, her affection for him, her sadness, her relief that he had returned, her confusion at speaking this way to a dog. It was, of course, impossible for him to respond to so many nuances at once.

— I have been called Majnoun for much of my life, he said. It is the name my first master gave me and it is the one I prefer.

He spoke clearly and Nira understood. She was so used to understanding him without words, however, that she did not at first realize he’d spoken. She had the odd but fleeting sensation that Majnoun had entered her consciousness in some new way.

— I’m sorry, Majnoun, she said at last. I didn’t know.

+

Hermes’s gift to Majnoun was precious and unprecedented, but it was also something of a burden. From being a dog who knew English fairly well, Majnoun became one who understood all human languages. Walking in Roncesvalles, he sometimes had to stop himself from listening to conversation in Polish, say

— Te pomidory są zgniłe!

or Hungarian

— Megőrültél?

Hearing other languages was like hearing new rhythms, melodies and reasons. At times, he found himself so transfixed that Nira had to call him from his reveries.

— Maj, come on. We’ve got things to do.

(Majnoun’s favourite human language was English. There was no doubt about that. This had little to do with the fact he’d learned English first. It was that English, of all the languages he experienced, was the one best suited to dogs. A dog had to think differently in English, yes, but the sounds and rhythms of English were those that best mimicked the rhythms and tonal range of a dog’s natural tongue. One pleasant consequence of Majnoun’s love for English — pleasant for him and for Nira — was his taking up of poetry. With Prince’s poems as his model, Majnoun ‘wrote’ the same way Prince had, memorizing his poems. Then he’d recite them to Nira.

In China, where wild dogs are eaten,

I am dismayed to be in season.

I curse men who think of me as food

and dream of rickshaws, and lacquered wood.

Or again:

If rackabones eat up the sky,

if words spring out of rock,

my soul will wind down

and life run out the clock.

On the other hand, when Nira asked him which language he liked best, Majnoun did not say English. He could not. As far as Majnoun was concerned, the language of dogs was more expressive, more vivid, easier to understand and more beautiful than any human speech. He tried to teach her Dog, but, to his surprise, their efforts foundered on Nira’s inability to tell the difference between a bark of pleasure and a call for attention, a crucial distinction in canine speech. Nira was disappointed. The only phrase she learned passably well was ‘I will bite you,’ not something you could say to just any dog. She would have liked to speak to him in his own tongue, but the truth was: Majnoun could not abide her accent and was not unhappy when she stopped trying.)

Majnoun’s decision to speak was not, at first, welcomed by Nira. True, their friendship was restored when Majnoun returned home and spoke. But it was unsettling to speak English with him. The two of them had evolved a lovely, wordless communication in which silence, the turn of a head or a hesitant nod were all meaningful. Now she had to deal with those things as well as words and, in the beginning, she found Majnoun more arduous to comprehend, though her understanding was deeper. More than that: Majnoun’s speaking brought what Nira thought of as ‘procedural problems.’ They both agreed it was best if Nira alone knew of his ability to speak. But as they grew more comfortable with each other, one or the other would, in public, forget their compact and ask a question or comment on something. When it was Nira who spoke to Majnoun, there was naturally less confusion than when Majnoun spoke to her. Majnoun’s voice was lower than Nira’s, so bystanders who heard his voice had trouble deciding whence exactly the words had come. This confusion brought unwanted attention.

Then there was Miguel. Miguel did not particularly like Majnoun. He’d preferred Benjy and he resented the closeness Nira and Majnoun shared. Majnoun understood all of this and forgave Miguel because Miguel’s feelings were, as far as Majnoun was concerned, honourable. Still, it was clear that Miguel might not have Majnoun’s best interests in mind, that he might not protect Majnoun the way Nira would. So Nira and Majnoun agreed that it would be best if they did not speak in front of Miguel. This meant that, at times, Miguel’s presence made the two feel awkward. It made Nira feel as if she were betraying her husband’s trust, while Majnoun felt he was betraying the pack leader.

In the end, it took Nira some time to feel at ease with Majnoun’s English. Once she was accustomed to it, however, his presence became so precious to her that the fact Majnoun was a dog ceased to signify. It stopped occurring to her that he was not as she was. Really, what did it matter that Majnoun was a dog while, for instance, they sat together by the Boulevard Club watching the willows move?

(Willows were for both of them a source of fascination. Though he knew better, Majnoun had always thought the trees were a subtle kind of animal, deceptive and imperious. To the very end, part of him still believed it. He could not contemplate the swaying branches without wishing to bite them. Minus the desire to bite, Nira felt something similar. For her the trees were like mammoths in leaf: ancient, slow, the last of something imperial, though of course they were not. They were only trees.)

Perfect understanding between beings is no guarantor of happiness. To perfectly understand another’s madness, for instance, is to be mad oneself. The veil that separates earthly beings is, at times, a tragic barrier, but it is also, at times, a great kindness. In fact, the only beings to achieve ‘perfect mutual understanding’ are the gods. For the gods, any emotion or state of mind — madness, anger, bitterness, etc. — is pleasurable, so understanding is neither here nor there. Hermes knew all this. As the god of translators, he was also the god of mistranslation and misunderstanding. It was he who, in a manner of speaking, muddied waters that became too clear or clarified those that had grown murky. But if there was ever a being who could be made happy by the gift of understanding, it was Majnoun. The more Majnoun understood of Nira, the more grateful he was that he had returned to what was now, undoubtedly, his home.

+

Two years passed.

As he grew older and more statesmanlike, Majnoun came to appreciate Nira in the best way possible: through the things that she loved. Her films, for instance. How deeply she admired Cléo from 5 to 7, Days of Heaven and Tokyo Story! Tokyo Story above all. One afternoon, Nira sat with him and they watched the movie together. It was the first time Majnoun had watched any film all the way through. It wasn’t that he was not interested in films. It was that he could not stand to see so many distant worlds without being able to smell them. Worlds were not real without their odours, so movies and paintings were inevitably a disappointment. But Nira so loved Tokyo Story that he sat still for the two hours it took to watch it.

When the movie was over, it took a moment for Nira to regain her composure. As always, she was moved to tears when Setsuko Hara cries.

— Did you like it? she asked at last.

— Yes, said Majnoun.

— You didn’t think it was too long? Some people find it boring.

— It was not boring, said Majnoun, but it was strange. The people were always looking away to where you couldn’t see. The whole time, I thought there was something coming. Then at the end, it was death that came.

It touched Nira that Majnoun could appreciate something she cherished. But there were aspects of the film that Majnoun found difficult to interpret, despite Hermes’s gift. To begin with, there was the general absence of dogs. When, somewhere toward the middle of the film, four dogs ran across the screen, responding to the whistled call of their master, Majnoun was immediately alert. So, it was something of a disappointment that the dogs were never seen again. But then, somewhere toward the end of the film, a man whistles for dogs who are not shown. First, the one who whistles is invisible. Then, it’s the ones who are called. These two moments, unexplained, seemed to Majnoun like a metaphysical puzzle at the heart of the film.

Also intriguing was all the bowing. The association of height and status did not, of course, faze him. If anything, it made the Japanese seem noble. But where were the ones who made themselves big? That was the question. With so many people bowing down, it seemed to Majnoun like a competition amongst the low to see who could be lowest. In which case, discretion was strength, a paradox that Majnoun found almost as compelling as the film’s relative absence of dogs.

In the end, it occurred to Majnoun that the two mysteries might be related. Dogs being capable of bowing much lower than humans, it perhaps followed that, in Tokyo Story, the dogs were a mysterious power it was forbidden to show too often, that a glimpse of them was all the discreet filmmakers had allowed themselves. Understandably, this idea contributed to Majnoun’s affection for the film.

It was even more interesting to read Nira’s favourite books. There was more time to think about things. Nira read Pride and Prejudice and Mansfield Park to him over the space of a month, aloud in the late afternoons before Miguel came home from work. Of these two, Mansfield Park was the one that troubled Majnoun most. It seemed to him almost frightening in its rage for order, like a manual for masters.

When they’d finished reading it, Majnoun said

— Nira, do you like fucking?

(Fucking was one of Miguel’s words. Nira had never spoken it.)

When she’d recovered from her surprise at the question, Nira said

— Where did that come from, Maj?

— I was thinking about Fanny Price, said Majnoun. She loves Edmund but she disapproves of fucking, doesn’t she?

— It’s impossible to say. As I see it, Fanny thinks there’s a right time and place for everything. But, to answer your question, I prefer making love. Look … this is a very personal matter, Maj, but there are times when I miss Miguel and I like being with him and I like when being with him turns into something more. It’s slow and it takes time. If you only saw the last part, you might think there’s no difference between making love and fucking, but there is for me. But then there are other times when I really just want him inside me and it’s almost as if it doesn’t matter that it’s Miguel, but it does matter.

— I see, said Majnoun

but here, too, his understanding of the human situation — as opposed to his understanding of Nira — was coloured by his lack of familiarity with certain rituals. He himself had never ‘made love,’ nor could he imagine wishing to.

What was interesting to him was how much humans relied on their imaginations. Not just for amusement but for fundamental things as well. He preferred to allow his body to think for him. Or he had in the old days before he’d changed. Now that he was somewhere between dog and human, he was curious about the imagination. Had he not been (as Nira called it) ‘neutered,’ he thought he might at least have tried to ‘make love’ to another dog. But then again, it would have been difficult to know where to start. Bitches in heat — the very smell of them an indescribably pleasing derangement — wanted fucking. There was no place for what Nira called ‘seduction.’ He briefly considered if bringing food to a bitch out of heat might put her in heat, but why would he bother? He was certainly not what Nira called ‘heterosexual,’ but neither was he homosexual or even bisexual. There were times when he was aroused in the presence of other dogs or humans or plush toys, for that matter, and he would mount them or rub against them if he could. On that score, he certainly made no distinction between bitches and non-bitches. As had happened after they’d watched Tokyo Story, Majnoun was left with a kind of pleasing puzzlement when they’d finished reading Mansfield Park.

In the end, it surprised Majnoun to discover that works of art — Tokyo Story, Mansfield Park, Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, and so on — were not understandable in the way people were. These works were, it seemed, created to evade understanding while inviting it. He came to love this aspect of the human, which was, of course, an aspect of Nira.

Nira’s and Majnoun’s path to understanding was mutually taken. Nira learned what was important to Majnoun as he learned what was important to her. Their journeys were quite different, however. To begin with, there were no artefacts for her to consider. No films or books that Majnoun loved. No music. Moreover, there was an asymmetry in their sensory capacities. Majnoun’s vision was not as keen as hers, but he noticed things she did not: squirrels, for instance. Majnoun could detect their slightest movement, were the creatures up in the trees or somewhere in the distance. His sense of smell was astounding. He could tell whether or not she had put shadow benny in her stewed chicken. And his sense of taste was just as impressive. Finally, his hearing was more acute than hers. He could hear higher pitches than she could, naturally. But he interpreted sounds differently as well. Nira had always heard that Bach’s music (among her favourites) was loved by all animals. Not by Majnoun it wasn’t. Not at all. For Majnoun, Bach’s music was like having needles prick you from the inside. He preferred Wagner — whose music Nira disliked— and he loved Anton Bruckner.

— Do dogs have stories? Nira asked him one day.

— Of course, said Majnoun.

— Oh, Maj! said Nira. Please tell me one.

Majnoun agreed and began:

— There is the smell of bitch, but I am before a wall. The smell is strong and I am going mad. I can’t eat. I can’t drink. The wall is too thick to knock down and it goes for miles in this direction and for miles in that direction. I dig under and I dig and I dig. The master cannot see my digging so I dig until there is air beneath the wall and the smell of bitch is stronger than it was before. I call to the bitch but there is no answer. But there is air beneath the wall. Should I go on digging? I don’t know, but I dig even though I can smell the master’s food from his house. The smell of bitch is stronger and stronger. I call out, but now I am hungry.

Here Majnoun stopped.

— Is that it? asked Nira.

— Yes, said Majnoun. Do you not like it?

— Well, it’s … different, said Nira. But it doesn’t really have an ending.

— It has a very moving ending, said Majnoun. Is it not sad to be caught between desires?

+

By degrees, the distance between Nira and Majnoun narrowed until each could anticipate what the other wanted. Nira could tell when exactly Majnoun wished to eat or go for a walk. Majnoun knew when it was time to leave Nira alone, when it was time to comfort her, when it was time to sit quietly by her side. By degrees, they had less use for words or English.

One morning, they discovered that they’d dreamed of the same field, the same clouds, the same house in the distance — wooden with a red-brick chimney. They had dreamed of the same squirrels and rabbits. They had drunk from the same clear stream. There was only one difference: when Nira, in her dream, looked into the water, she saw Majnoun’s face reflected back at her, while Majnoun, in his, saw Nira’s face where his should have been. The fact of this shared dream was so moving to Nira that, ever after, she refused to allow anyone — even Miguel — to refer to Majnoun as ‘her’ dog.

— I’m as much his as he’s mine, she’d insist.

Her friends — and her husband — thought this an annoying eccentricity. Majnoun knew what she meant — that she was not his master — and he was grateful. But in his heart he felt as if he did belong to her, in the sense that he was a part of Nira and she a part of him.

What neither could have known was that their shared and simple dream was a harbinger of disaster. They had now grown so close that Atropos, the Fate who cuts the thread of a mortal’s life, could not tell their threads apart. Majnoun’s time to die had come — he was fairly old, for a dog — but she could not cut his thread without the risk of cutting Nira’s.

The work of the three sisters — Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos — is generally straightforward. The first spins the thread of a life. The second draws out the length of thread each being will have. The third cuts the thread and ends that being’s time on earth. It often happens that life threads are intertwined — most commonly, the lives of husbands and wives, which is why they often die together or close together in time. And, in fact, Nira’s and Miguel’s threads were almost as closely intertwined as Nira’s and Majnoun’s. Though Nira and Miguel were meant to live longer than Majnoun, the threads of all three lives were so wound up, so similar in hew and thickness, that Atropos was not certain whose life would end if she used her scissors.

She complained bitterly to Zeus that one or more of the gods must have interfered with the mortals because it was unnatural that she could not properly end a life she was meant to end. Zeus, who disliked the Fates and avoided speaking with them, was unmoved.

— A life must end, he said. It is your duty to cut the thread. Do your duty.

Spitefully, Atropos cut two of the three lives that were wound together, then added years to the one that was left by way of balance. Clotho and Lachesis giggled at her daring, but Atropos was too contemptuous to share in their laughter.

— King of the gods! she said to Lachesis. ‘Loud-mouthed fornicator’ is more like it. Let him just try to get back at me for this!

For a week, Nira and Miguel had been arguing about the dishes. Miguel always did them, but he did not, he felt, receive the credit he deserved.

To Majnoun, it was a strange argument. To begin with, Miguel never allowed Nira to do the dishes. He would insist that he was not some ‘male chauvinist’ who didn’t do housework, though in fact the dishes was all he did, where housework was concerned. Nira’s point was that she never got credit for doing the cleaning, the tidying and the cooking, but she never complained about that. As occasionally happened, Miguel alluded to her work — copy editing — with a certain contempt, as if it weren’t quite ‘work.’ Copy editing allowed her to stay at home, and some part of him resented this, given that he, a script editor for various programs at the TV Ontario, had to leave every morning. They argued about dishes, then housework, then work, then housework, then dishes, then housework, then work and so on. It was astounding, to Majnoun, that a runaround like that could go on for so long. More: although housework was the basis of an argument that flared up every six months or so, both were always as upset by the subject as if it were something new.

‘Housework’ was a strange concept in any case. As long as one didn’t shit in inconvenient places, where was the problem? As far as Majnoun was concerned, the real trouble was with the size of human dens and with the fastidiousness of primates. You would think, having as much space as they did, that they would simply move from one room to another when they wished, but their need for chemical smells and clean surfaces betrayed them. As for the dishes: what was the point of cleaning off the smells and tastes that clung to bowls, pots and plates? That was like scrubbing the best part away, then congratulating yourself for it. To think that poor Nira got so worked up about these things!

Though he did not like to intrude on what was, clearly, an episode in the struggle for dominance, it occurred to Majnoun that what Miguel and Nira needed was to spend time together, without him around, that a change of routine would do them good. Nira was sceptical. She and Miguel had never been ones for travel. They preferred things nearby: plays, movies or restaurants. Besides which, their happiest times had come when they were home. Nira had had enough of arguing with Miguel, however, and Miguel, not coincidentally, had had enough of arguing with her. So, when Nira suggested that they visit a few wineries together and spend two nights (Friday and Saturday) near Thirty Bench, Miguel agreed at once. Anything to end the bickering.

But who would take care of Majnoun?

Majnoun, who could open the fridge if he needed something, who did not mind if she put out a bag of dry ‘dog food,’ who shat in the toilet as humans did, who could get out of the house if there was fire or smoke, who could turn the backyard tap on and off if he needed water, shook his head. He wanted no strange company. Nira wasn’t comfortable with the idea of leaving him on his own. But Miguel — who assumed the dog would be locked safely inside — said

— Majnoun will be fine.

Behind him, Majnoun nodded in agreement, so that, despite her misgivings, Nira relented. Then, Friday came.

That morning, Nira and Majnoun went for a walk together. It had been some time since they’d been to High Park, because Majnoun — now ten — could not stand the proximity of other dogs and could not defend himself as well as he once could. They decided to walk in the park but away from the off-leash areas, going in through the iron-and-stone gate at High Park and Parkside. They were more or less alone, there being few people or dogs about. When they came to Centre Road, they followed it around the curve and up the hill, talking — for no particular reason — about the seasons. Nira mentioned that her favourite season was autumn. She loved the way the trees changed colour, the cool weather, the coming of winter. Majnoun did not know that one could have a favourite season.

— You must like one more than the others, said Nira.

— I cannot think why, said Majnoun. I am never sure when the seasons begin and I like in between the seasons, too, and in between in between and in between in between in between.

Here, they both laughed. Not, as was sometimes the case, because Majnoun had been inadvertently amusing, but because he was teasing her.

— There should be a hundred seasons, said Majnoun.

— You’re right, said Nira

and she scratched the place behind his ear, which was a feeling that Majnoun loved.

They had walked for longer than usual, for an hour or more. They had left the park and strolled along Sorauren all the way to Pearson, where, though she didn’t like to indulge her cravings, Nira bought a carrot muffin at Mitzi’s and, as if to make Majnoun her accomplice, gave him some.

— It’s too sweet, said Majnoun.

— Yes, but it’s got carrots and, besides, we don’t eat them every day.

Once home, Nira had packed the little she needed: toiletries, makeup, a black dress, a change of underwear. Together, they had listened to part of La Clemenza di Tito. Time passed and Miguel returned home from work. Not half an hour later, Miguel and Nira were leaving. As Miguel took their suitcases to the car, Nira crouched to look Majnoun in the eyes, a thing that always made him uncomfortable.

— You’re sure you’ll be okay? she asked. I left the bag of dry food out, in case you get hungry. There’s more in the pantry. There’s steak in the fridge on the bottom shelf. I made sure the tap outside was oiled. You shouldn’t have any trouble if you get thirsty. Are you sure you’ll be okay?

— Yes, he said.

At times like this, he preferred Miguel’s attitude. Miguel was not as caring as Nira, but neither did he make Majnoun nervous.

Nira ran her fingers through the hair on Majnoun’s flank.

— We’ll be back Sunday afternoon, she said.

Then she was gone, the last sounds he heard being her key in the front door and her fading footsteps as she walked off the porch.

+

A day passed. And then another.

As previously noted, one of the worst aspects of the dogs’ change in intelligence was their new consciousness of time. The state of bliss in which one moment is a thousand and a thousand moments one was something all the dogs had taken for granted. After the change, each of the fifteen had had to fend for themselves against a new Time, a Time that knew how to make its passage felt. Majnoun had done better than most, because he’d had Nira to help him lose track of moments that passed. Walking with Nira along Roncesvalles or by the lakeshore was time that he would happily have prolonged. If anything, their hours together passed too quickly. With Nira gone, however, there was little to protect him from the excruciation that duration can be. To keep himself occupied in the first twenty-four hours, he had written a poem for Nira, something to surprise her with on her return.

Summer is full of smoke,

and endless lawns. Quietly,

whether across moss or on algae,

knee over the railing of the little porch,

fate comes.

Then, as Nira had left Tannhäuser in the CD player for him, he’d listened to the opera, slept, listened to it again, gone outside and wandered around the edges of High Park away from people and dogs, slept, listened to Tannhäuser again, slept again. On Monday morning, he woke and was confused to find himself alone. The kitchen clock seemed to be working — the second hand jumped as it always did — but Nira had not returned. This was as strange as if the sun had risen in the west. He ate little that day. And though he knew Miguel and Nira did not like it, he lay down in their bed, the place in the house where the smell of them was strongest.

If Monday was bewildering, Tuesday was strange beyond language. Some time in the afternoon, he heard a key turn in the front door. The sound made him immediately alert. Someone was trying to invade their home. He knew the rhythms, the voices, the very weight of both Nira and Miguel. Neither of them was at the door. He ran to the front hall growling, ready to attack whoever entered. But he did not attack. Could not. The intruder was someone familiar but ‘wrong,’ and Majnoun could not help himself.

— Who are you? he asked.

The man — Miguel’s brother — stood a moment staring at Majnoun before pushing the door wide open. To the people behind him, he said

— Christ! That was weird. I could have sworn the dog spoke.

Behind him, someone said

— Nothing’s right without Miguel here.

Majnoun could barely keep himself from attacking the man who’d spoken Miguel’s name. It seemed to him that no one else had the right to make such an important sound. He retreated into the house, however, moving backwards, tail down, to let Miguel’s family in.

No sooner did she enter the house than Miguel’s mother began to weep.

— Oh lors! she cried.

Her sons held her up and the four of them remained in the front hall, huddled together. Their emotion — which Majnoun experienced as if it were his own — provoked the most conflicting feelings: pity, dislike and resentment. Why should these people be here instead of Nira? Nor did they look like leaving any time soon. They took their time in the front hall, the men finally helping the old woman into the living room, where she collapsed on the sofa, still overcome by emotion.

What a strange invasion it was. No one paid the least attention to him. No one spoke. They went through the house at a funereal pace, looking for whatever: clothes, letters, boxes. Miguel’s brothers did most of the searching, until their mother found the strength to rise from the sofa and help them look. Majnoun remained in the living room, sitting quietly, unmoving. It was a kind of torture not to speak, not to ask when Nira was coming home.

— What about the dog? said one of the brothers.

— Maybe Sarah will take it, said another.

— It was Nira’s dog, said Miguel’s mother. One of her friends should have it.

Those were all the words Majnoun needed to hear. He understood at once that Miguel’s family were nothing to do with him, that they were unfaithful to Nira, and that they meant him no good. With a minimum of fuss or urgency, he rose from where he was sitting and walked away from them. Once in the kitchen, he opened the back door, crossed the yard, opened the back fence and, before anyone so much as thought to stop him, he was halfway along Geoffrey, heading toward Roncesvalles. From there he went into High Park, returning to what had once been his pack’s den, the only place left to him, though it was haunted by the spirits of dogs who were gone.

Early the next morning, Majnoun’s vigil began a new phase. He returned to the house and warily waited for Nira, choosing a vantage across the street, far enough away that he could run, if he had to, but near enough to see all the comings and goings.

+

Over the years that followed, Majnoun had much time to wonder if he’d been hasty running out when he had. Perhaps, if he’d stayed, he might have overheard something about Nira, about her whereabouts. Not that hearsay would have changed the course of his life. Whatever Miguel’s family might have said, Majnoun would likely have done what he did in any case. That is, wait for Nira.

The beginning of waiting was, in its way, complicated. Not the decision to wait. No real decision was necessary. He knew he would wait for Nira because Nira would return. It would have been unthinkably cruel to force Nira to search for him. But waiting itself required that he make a number of choices. He had to eat, for instance. Belonging to Nira in the way he did, he could not allow himself to die, though he resented the time needed to keep himself fed because it was time spent away from the place Nira would expect him to be. Most mornings, he scrounged in High Park, eating whatever he happened upon. If he was still hungry, he waited until the place that sold squeeze toys and dog food opened: the Kennel Café. There, they inevitably put out biscuits and a bowl of water. More than enough to keep him going for a day.

Then there was the strategy of waiting.

In the beginning, the place was overrun by Miguel’s family. Whenever one of them saw Majnoun, they’d run after him. Why they wanted him at all was unclear. They seemed to think he was theirs. But he’d be off before they finished plotting their course. He’d run half a block, wait to see if they’d followed, run off half a block more, and so on until they gave up. It hurt his old bones to run, but he would not be caught.

Also in the beginning, he could not a find a place that hid him while allowing him to look out for Nira. Whenever he stayed in any one place for too long, there was inevitably a human there to disturb him. The closest he came to capture was when someone called the Toronto Animal Services to come and get him. Animal Services, he knew, were serious business. Nira had warned him about them. They killed inconvenient dogs. So, no sooner did he see the Animal Services van than he was off, darting behind houses, hiding, slinking, hiding until he made High Park, where he hid in the coppice for two whole days, two whole days away from home, worried that Nira would come or that she had already come and was upset that he was not there.

His life changed. The waiting changed.

Interest in Majnoun died down with the ‘For Sale’ sign that appeared on the lawn of he, Miguel and Nira’s home. Evidently, Miguel’s family were selling what did not belong to them. In a matter of weeks, the sign came down and strangers began to enter and leave his home: a woman, a man, two small children with blond hair.

Rather than staying on any one lawn or waiting in any one place, Majnoun varied his vantage points: across the street, two houses down, one house down, and even — once he was certain the woman and her children were not violent — in the backyard that had been his. As the years passed and he grew older and thinner, Majnoun learned to worry a little less that he might miss Nira’s return. He grew more confident that Nira would look for him when she came home and, what’s more, that he would know she was looking. When she came back, he would know it.

As his life settled into a routine, the world slowly changed around him. Two years after Nira had gone, the people on Geoffrey began to leave food out for him: a piece of meat or chicken, bread, carrots, whatever was leftover from their own meals. They kept their distance, because Majnoun was still a little intimidating (black with some grey, inscrutable, alert), but no one ever called the Toronto Animal Services again. The dogs in the area left him alone as well. Not out of fear, not because he was unnatural, but because the purity of his attention commanded respect. No dog could have doubted or misunderstood Majnoun’s resolve or the depths of his longing. They all knew what it was like to wait and, every once in a while, one would join Majnoun, silently sitting at a slight remove, sharing his task as a mark of respect.

To keep himself alert as he waited, Majnoun thought about things. Over the years, he thought about a thousand things, but two questions occupied most of his time. The first was about humanity. What, he wondered, did it mean to be human? The question was, ultimately, impossible for him to answer. He had been born outside of the human and, so, was ignorant of the implications of a world created by their limitations. What would it be like, for instance, to be unable to distinguish the smell of snow in winter from the smell of snow in early spring? What kind of world was it in which one could not, blindfolded, distinguish the great range in the taste of water or smell when a female was in heat? To be so limited? Inconceivable. And, of course, it was impossible to know a state (to know the human) by subtracting things in oneself, as if ‘human’ were what is left once the best of dog has been taken away.

This question was a way to think about what made Nira Nira, to try to imagine the world as she saw it, to feel it as she felt it, to think about it as she might.

The second question was about himself and what it meant — if it meant anything at all — to be a dog. What was he, really? Where did he fit in the world? Was he waiting for Nira because it was in his nature to wait, or was his dedication unique and noble? Most days, he felt only that waiting was right. Every once in a while, however, he imagined waiting was only the expression of an instinct, something he had to do. This thought, whenever it occurred, saddened him, mere instinct being unworthy of Nira, who was not his master but, rather, a being who completed him, made him more than he would otherwise have been.

And so, speculating about the canine brought him closer to Nira as well.

+

Though it is far from obvious, the gods are not inevitably indifferent to the suffering of mortals. At times, mortal suffering is amusing to them, at times diverting; at times, though rarely, it is touching.

When Majnoun’s vigil had lasted five years, Zeus allowed himself to notice that the dog had lived well beyond its span, that its suffering was unnecessarily prolonged. Moved by the dog’s nobility of spirit, he visited the hall of the Fates.

No one enjoys visiting the Fates. They are haughty and beyond petition. They are eccentric in their views, and the hall where mortal lives are spun is itself unpleasant: white, exactly one millimetre less than infinite in length, ten metres tall and ten metres wide. Eleven white urns — each filled with the essence of a particular emotion — sit in a row near Clotho’s spinning wheel. As a life is spun, it is dipped in each of the urns by Lachesis before being cut by Atropos. (In principle, Lachesis dips each and every thread in each of the jars, assuring that every life has the same generous emotional range. Lachesis is unpredictable, however, dipping some threads in one or two emotions alone, rendering a life monotonous or unbearable. It is through Lachesis that suicides are born.)

Given their mansion and their personalities, it is not surprising that most of the gods avoided them entirely, that the sisters had only each other for company. So, it was with a mixture of secret pleasure and open defiance that Clotho, Lachesis and Atropos received Zeus into their hall.

— I hope you haven’t come to blame us for anything, said Atropos.

— I have known you since the beginning of time, said Zeus. You’ve never been anything but blameless.

— He’s right, said Clotho. We do what no other immortals can do. We must be blameless.

The sisters laughed.

— And yet, said Zeus, your tasks are not always rightly done. It seems some mortals have had their lifespans shortened while others have had them prolonged.

— The king of the gods must be at fault, said Atropos, if an injustice has been committed.

— It isn’t I who decided to extend Majnoun’s life, said Zeus. You three have drawn out the suffering of an innocent being. You have interfered where I expressly forbade it. But I’m sure you have your reasons and I’d be honoured if you shared them with me.

— Fuck you, said Atropos.

— If the being you refer to is suffering, said Clotho, talk to your sons about it. They’ve always been meddlers. I’m sure you’ll find they’re to blame, though some might blame you since you’re unable to control your children, O great and powerful Zeus.

Zeus bowed his head.

— The least you could do, he said, is end Majnoun’s suffering.

— That we will not do, said Atropos. It is out of our hands and yours.

— Would you have him wait forever?

— It won’t be forever, said Lachesis. The dog is not immortal.

— Fifty years at most, said Clotho.

— That is a long time for a dog, said Zeus.

Atropos, who had, despite herself, been moved by Majnoun’s fidelity to Nira, relented.

— If you can convince the creature to give up his wait, we will allow his life to end. Perhaps next time we come to you for advice, you will listen.

Having got all he could from the Fates, Zeus summoned Hermes and Apollo.

— This game of yours has cost me more than it has cost you two, he said. One of you will convince Majnoun to give up his vigil. If you fail, both of you will suffer until his suffering ends.

— There’s no need to threaten us, Father, said Apollo. Haven’t we always been good sons? We’ll do whatever you ask.

Which is how, after Zeus’s sons had fought about it and Apollo had alluded to Hermes’s well-known tendency to meddle in mortal lives through dreams, Hermes was tasked with setting Majnoun free. As to their wager, both gods agreed that Majnoun could not, without Nira, die happy. Prince — himself on the verge of death — was Hermes’s last remaining hope.

— You know, I’m looking forward to the years of servitude you’ll owe me, said Apollo. We’ll see how you like being chauffeur to a ball of fire.

+

By allowing Nira and Majnoun a divine intimacy, Hermes had made his task more difficult than it might have been. It was no use simply asking Majnoun to abandon his vigil. He did not have the rhetorical skill needed to convince the dog that Nira would not return. The god of thieves was further hampered by his admiration for Majnoun. He would not consider obvious trickery. He would not disguise himself as Nira, for instance. And yet, knowing that Majnoun could not be happy without Nira, knowing that Majnoun’s vigil was futile, Hermes had incentive to accomplish this small mercy: to allow Majnoun to accept his own death.

One day, as Majnoun sat in the yard opposite the house that had been his home, a black poodle — almost Majnoun’s double, save that this one had bright blue eyes — greeted him in the language of his pack.

— Do you mind if I sit with you? Hermes asked.

Pleased to hear the language of his pack, Majnoun said

— I do not mind, but how do you know our language?

— I am well-travelled, said Hermes, I know many languages.

— Even the human ones?

— Yes, said Hermes, I have lived many places.

In English, Majnoun said

— You must be very intelligent.

In English, Hermes answered

— I am, but I don’t like to talk about my virtues.

Majnoun knew then that this was the being he had seen in dreams.

— You are not a dog, he said. I know you. What do you want with me?

— I am here to help.

— Tell me where Nira is, said Majnoun.

— I can take you to her, said Hermes, but you will have to leave this place.

Majnoun looked over at the house he had been contemplating for five years: red brick, tall chimney, pyramid roof, a window with shutters on the third floor, a bay window on the second floor, front porch with its own roof, blue spruce in the front yard, different kinds of bushes that served as a hedge. You might almost have said that he loved its bricks, aluminium and wood, but, of course, they were precious only because Nira had lived within.

— I cannot leave, said Majnoun.

Hermes said

— Then I will keep you company, if you’ll allow it. Is there anything I can do for you?

Majnoun considered the question. There was nothing he wanted, but he was curious about the visitor’s influence.

— Make time stop, he said.

— It is very unpleasant, said Hermes, but as you wish.

And time stood still. A bird that had alighted on the branch of a tree two doors down stopped singing but went on producing the same note it had produced at the moment time stopped. No sound having had time to decay, the noise around them was unbearable, the earth a deafening alarm. A butterfly hovering above the leaves of a flowering shrub seemed stuck in a jelly of air, the light-blue dots on its wings clearly visible above a yellow fringe. Even the smells stood still, so that when Majnoun moved his head ever so slightly, he could smell a vein of scent and then another and another, each scent like a layer in mica.

— That’s enough, said Majnoun

only moments after time had stopped.

— I used to amuse myself doing that, said Hermes. It was a test to see how long I could last. I am like you, Majnoun. I never lasted long. My brother Ares could take it for days, though.

— Your brother must be strong, said Majnoun.

— No, said Hermes. The noise reminds him of war, and he likes it.

At that, Majnoun understood how completely his companion transcended the world. Though he was intimidated, he asked

— What is it like to be a god?

— I am very sorry, said Hermes, but the only language in which I can truly express this is one that mortals cannot learn.

— Do you feel as we do? asked Majnoun.

— No, said Hermes. For me, what you call feeling is of a different order and nature. It is palpable, like steam or smoke.

— How strange, said Majnoun.

For a time, the two sat quietly together, contemplating the houses, the sky, and the world. The people who passed saw Majnoun in one of his usual spots, staring fixedly ahead, as he usually did. They did not see Hermes. The dogs, cats and birds, on the other hand, saw Hermes before they saw Majnoun and all were spooked.

There were a thousand questions Majnoun would have liked to ask. Are dogs greater than humans? Which beings are smartest? Why is there death? What is the purpose of life? Most of these questions were interesting, but their answers were now unimportant to Majnoun. Majnoun wished to know one thing and one thing alone: Nira’s whereabouts. But he was afraid to ask the question or, rather, afraid of its answer. And Hermes — out of respect for Majnoun — did not speak of Nira. He waited, rather, to be asked.

Despite being unable to broach the one subject that mattered to him, Majnoun was more or less at ease in Hermes’s company. They spoke (silently) of a number of things, the god at home in the mind of the dog. And the day passed in what seemed moments.

As the sun set, Majnoun reluctantly left his station. He and Hermes wandered along Roncesvalles, drifting toward High Park. Majnoun sniffed at things on the ground, before Hermes led him to an alley behind a delicatessen. There, they found stale bread and a link of Polish sausage. Majnoun ate as much as he wanted, before wandering west to High Park. He was now well past the age of moving quickly and — in warm weather — he rarely went much farther than the park’s perimeter: the playground, the duck pond, the trees near the streetcar roundabout.

When, at last, he and Hermes sat beneath the boughs of a pine tree, the question he’d avoided forced its way into his thoughts and Majnoun could not hide his anxiety.

— I can see, said Hermes, that you’d like to ask me something.

— Can you tell me what love means? asked Majnoun.

The sun had almost completely set. A crimson line lay just above the trees. The noises of night — subtler but more intriguing than those of day — had come, and the park was lit here and there by street light and moonlight. The shadows deepened.

— Your bodies are so graceful, said Hermes, and your senses are magnificent. I regret that you’ve been changed, Majnoun. If you were as you’d been, a dog like other dogs, the question you asked would not have occurred to you. You would know the answer already.

— The word reminds me of Nira, said Majnoun.

— I understand, said Hermes. So let us make a pact. I’ll answer your question, but, in return, you’ll consider leaving this place.

— I cannot leave without Nira, said Majnoun.

— I ask only that you consider it, said Hermes.

Majnoun agreed, then he sat up straight.

— What you want to know, Majnoun, is not what love means. It means no one thing and never will. What you want to know is what Nira meant when she used the word. This is more difficult, because Nira’s word is like a long journey taken by one woman alone. She read the word in books, heard it in conversations, talked about it with friends and family, Miguel and you. No other being has encountered the word love as Nira has or used it in quite the same ways, but I can take you along Nira’s path.

Which the god of translators did, taking Majnoun, in a handful of heartbeats, through every encounter Nira had had with the word love, allowing Majnoun to feel her emotions and know her thoughts each and every time she had heard, thought about or spoken the word: from the tiniest flicker of recognition to the deepest emotion and all points between. As Majnoun’s understanding of Nira’s ‘love’ deepened, so did his distress. Nira was restored to him as if she were there with them, but she was far from him as well, and it was suddenly unbearable to be without her.

Majnoun could not even keen, so overwhelmed was he by grief. All he could manage was a sigh. He lay down on the rust-coloured pine needles and put his head on the crux made by his paws.

— There’s no need for you to wait any longer, said Hermes. I will take you to her.

At that moment, Majnoun would have done anything to see Nira again. And so, trusting in the god of thieves, he gave up his vigil. And his soul travelled through the evening with Hermes as its guide.