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November 11th. Squeaky Cat.

The Owner says that when it is time to go home then the Moral Dog would go home. He would not sidle round the side of the tennis court and pretend to be deaf.

I say I am not pretending to be deaf I am simply postponing my response.

She says the clever use of words does not disguise the perfidy of the Deliberate Dog. Postponing is a decision in itself.

I postpone my response to this too.

She says that isn’t postponing, that is sidling, and she is going whether I like it or not. Look at me going, Hergest, she says, walking backwards out of the park. To my shock and horror I hear a faint, despairing squeak. She has Squeaky Cat. In her pocket.

Then she leaves the Park.

She has disappeared with Squeaky Cat. I wait, but they do not reappear. There is only one possible explanation.

The Owner and Squeaky Cat have been eaten by a whale. There is no other possible explanation. I was reading Moby Dick only this morning. Otherwise I would never have known.

I race out of the park ready to extract them from the whale. I hope they have not been digested. I do not even pause to put on my Superdog cloak. Squeaky Cat is sounding fainter by the second. Whale digestion is very rapid. Time is of the essence.

To my shock I am seized and bundled into a lead. I have been entrapped.

How lovely to see you Hergest, she says. Shall we go home?

I say I am not ready to go home yet. I have been deceived, forsaken, misled, seduced, and now she wants conversation? There were things to sniff that I had not yet sniffed.

Were they fox poo? Asks the Owner.

I say they might have been. Having not yet sniffed them I cannot be certain. How can she justify kidnapping Squeaky Cat like that?

She says we had a lovely walk. We are still having it. It is just pointing towards home. I notice Squeaky Cat says nothing. I am seized by a terrible suspicion. Did Squeaky Cat, I say, pointing with a trembling paw, participate in this treachery?

Squeaky Cat says he didn’t participate in anything. He merely, upon being asked to squeak in a timely fashion, postponed the decision to refuse.

I say the clever use of words does not disguise the perfidy of the Cunning Cat. Postponing is a decision in itself.

Exactly, says the Owner.

Categories: camus dignity dog dog philosophy sartre Squeaky Cat

Hergest the Hound

I am a dog of many thoughts.

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