ARGO & HIS MASTER By Italo Svevo

My doctor had exiled me up there: I was to stay a whole year up in the high mountain air, venturing out only when weather permitted, staying home when weather commanded. A brilliant idea, his, but useless. Abundant exercise in summer brought no benefit, and the forced rest imposed by the first fall storms, initially pleasurable, quickly became excessive, annoying, unnerving. Boredom provoked me into an adventure with one of the rude village's women. It ended - as you shall see - badly, adding to my tedium a sense of rancor toward the very place that was supposed to heal me.

Old Anna, my only company in that little house sheltered under a cliff, had no trouble giving herself over entirely to the rest cure. Sometimes she even forgot to make my bed. I gazed on her with envy and couldn’t bring myself to get angry. When I pretended to lose my patience, she became indignant: "I only have two arms!" she would cry, but the only time those two fat little arms took action was to raise up in protest against my remonstrance.

It cheered me up so see that repose - hers, at least - wasn't such a bad thing after all.

I sat in my bedroom reading the newspaper from top to bottom, even the classifieds. I often interrupted that boring practice to add fuel to the iron stove I always kept red hot. "That'll do it!" I'd say to myself, finally feeling warm enough, but shortly effort was needed to fuss again with the coals, which drove me to find a new activity (thank God!): I would open the window, but soon had to shut it again when the steamy heat in the room rushed out to warm up the mountainside, letting in such a blast of damp cold that I had to go back to work at the stove. Truly brilliant, my doctor's cure!

Argo, my bloodhound, would observe me with curiosity and some anxiety, worried that my restlessness might veer off in some new direction. He too knew how to relax. He would curl up on the soft carpet with his chin flat on the rug, his eyes the only restless part of his body. That surely must be the gaze of the halibut resting on the bottom of the sea. Whenever I opened the window, he would move over near the stove, his long body settling always into the same position after rounding a few times on itself. Then when the room grew too hot, he would migrate into a corner far from the blaze. Once he found just the right position, he emitted a profound sigh. He disturbed me only when he slept, because he snored - though still a young dog - like a broken-down old jalopy. He received some brusque wake-up calls thanks to a kick or two I sent his way, but in ten minutes he was making the same noise again, so I just had to resign myself. All in all,

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that regular sound really wasn't so unpleasant, and if I sometimes reacted cruelly, it was purely out of envy.

Argo was not an especially important personage, not even among dogs. The local hunters said he couldn’t be pure blood because his body was a little too long. Everyone admired his lively gaze (that too, too big for a hunting dog), his finely curved snout, and his ample shoulders. On the hunt he was impulsive; some days as aggressive as those drunks who assault people because carried by their own weight. The beatings he received did some good, but more often they only increased his clumsiness, turning him into a bull in a china shop. Maybe it was that aspect of his character that succeeded in alleviating my disconsolate loneliness. Harebrained and invasive, when he didn’t make me angry, he made me laugh.

That evening, I was going back over the newspaper for the fourth time. Wind-devils outside brought a close to an entire day of bad weather. The violent wind refused to stop even for an instant. If it went on like that, it meant that tomorrow we’d be cut off from the rest of the world, and I would be left with no other entertainment than to make love with old Anna. I tried to read, distracted by the rising hatred I felt for the doctor who had sent me up here. His university education had sure brought great results! Couldn’t he have dedicated himself to a less damaging trade?

Finally, I discovered in the paper a piece of news that entirely absorbed my attention.

In Germany, there was a dog that had learned to speak. To speak like a man, with such high intelligence, in fact, that people would ask his advice. He was even able to pronounce those difficult German words I could never manage. It was news you could laugh at but not ignore. It certainly wasn’t just one of those things that “the valley tells the mountain,” as they say, like all the other political and social news that means nothing to the mountain. No, this was news that concerned me just as much as it did anyone in the valley.

Perhaps, struck, I made a sudden movement, but to my surprise Argo raised his head from the carpet and looked at me. I looked back, and there must have been such a strange expression in my face that, uneasy, he rose up on his front legs to study me better. He quickly turned away from my inquisitive stare with that cowardice typical of dogs, the only sign that their sincerity is somewhat less total than we suppose. He then looked at me again, shutting first one eye and then the other – so comical because the stupid animal seems to adopt that alternating ploy to avoid remaining sightless even for an instant – as he tried to sustain my stare. Then, hypocritically, he looked intently toward a corner of the room where there

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was nothing to see. Finally he settled on a compromise between me and the corner, thus allowing him to keep an eye on me without having to admit it.

The newspaper article freed me from tedium. Reinforced and confirmed by Argo’s pantomime, doubt was impossible: the news must be true! Argo could speak but remained silent out of pure obstinacy. I abandoned the paper, which no longer held my interest, and threw myself totally into the education of Argo.

I immediately felt as though I were banging my head against a wall. Assaulted by sounds and gestures, the stupid animal gathered up all his wisdom and gave me his paw! One, two, twenty times! He intuited that he was being asked to demonstrate what he knew, so he offered his paw! He proferred it always with the same patient gesture. But in order to become human, he now had to forget that trained dog gesture marking his arrested development, heretofore the extreme limit of his education.

That very first evening, I already completely lost my patience. Argo went back to his hutch with tail between legs, but I must say that his state was less miserable than my own. Once in bed, I returned to casting aspersions on the doctor. I decided I must leave the poor dog in peace, who shared no blame for my exile.

But it wasn’t easy to accept the inertia to which I’d been condemned, with Argo always there next to me, offering such limitless potential for activity. Before, to shake off my torpor, I would bustle back and forth to the stove to meddle with the fire; now, despite my best intentions, I kept finding myself squatting on the floor next to Argo. It’s the only possible position for speaking with a dog. At first, the innocent beast, as though out of a strange sort of modesty, looked elsewhere when faced with a man in the pose of a dog, but soon he got used to it. Every day, twenty, a hundred lessons. Blows rained down, and then sugar cubes. When he could, Argo sought to escape the torture. But I was incapable of depriving myself of him except when I slept. At times, sheer discouragement interrupted our lessons. But then that very same frustration drove me to start again: I felt I had to avenge myself on such imbecility.

At the same time, I dedicated equally desperate tenacity to educating myself to the disproportionate task. I spied on the beast to discover whether to take him by the snout or tail. I seized on every sound he emitted and thought on it day and night. It was a long struggle, as much against myself as against the beast, but the result was triumphant.

That is, actually it was a fiasco, unless I decide to forget that my first intention was to teach Argo to speak Italian. Argo never learned to say a single word in Italian. But what’s the difference? The challenge was to

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understand one another, and there were only two possible paths: either Argo had to learn my language, or I had to learn his! It was entirely predictable, therefore, that in the lessons we gave one another, the more evolved being should learn the more. By the time winter reached its peak, I commanded the language of Argo.

I have no intention of teaching it to my readers and I lack the graphic signs to register its sounds. In any case, it isn’t the impoverished language of the dog that matters, but rather his character, and I was the first man in the world to see inside it. Speaking of this, I feel the same pride as those who, before me, discovered other fundamental facts of nature: Volta, Darwin, or Columbus. Argo delivered his communications to me with a submissive and resigned air. I have collected them and left them in their original form, as monologues, because after all, since I made so little progress in speaking his language, I was unable to discuss his statements with him.

I concede that I may have misunderstood Argo here and there, but not very much: I may have mistaken some words but I have most certainly correctly guessed their overall sense. Unfortunately, I can no longer count on Argo’s confirmation, because the poor beast survived only till summer: He died of acute anxiety. But all those who knew him recognize his character in these memoranda.

The details are of little importance, or if they are, I don’t know what to make of them. I give here what I have gathered. The language of the dog is poorer than the poorest of human languages. When I urged him to philosophize (Argo is most certainly the leading philosopher of his race), I received this almost Futurist phrase: Odors Three Equals Life. For days I asked for a commentary but all he ever did was repeat that phrase. The animal is perfect as is, and therefore cannot be perfected. He who studies the animal must learn to progress. I registered the phrase just as it was and carried on. Subsequent communications threw some light on it and I later began to feel that I had come to some understanding of it. He divides nature into three classes only because, for him, the mathematical maximum is three; but then he goes on to name five classes, and further pursuing the examples he provides, even more result. As I see it, this is the truest, highest philosophical sincerity.

It must be noted that all of Argo’s communications refer exclusively to the period of time we spent in the mountains. The valley, where he had lived until those last few months, seems entirely forgotten, as he never mentions anyone except me, old Anna, and a few other people and dogs who he encountered up there. Nevertheless, when he returned to the valley, he

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clearly remembered his old friends. He neither forgets nor remembers. He holds in reserve.

Here are Argo’s communications. I have added a few parenthetical observations, but perhaps they are unnecessary.

I

There are three odors in this world: the odor of my master, the odor of other people, the odor of Titì, the odor of other kinds of animals (rabbits, which rarely but sometimes have horns and are very big, birds, and cats) and lastly the odor of things. The odor of my master, of other people, of Titì, and of other animals is alive and shiny, while that of things is dull and black. Things sometimes have the odor of the animals that have passed over them, especially if they’ve left something behind, but otherwise things are mute. We dogs love to benefit things. Everyone knows the odor of my master; there’s no need to discuss it. It would be terrible if that odor did not exist. Argo would be able to do whatever he wants, which would be bad. That odor reassures, provides direction, and protects. Titì says the same about the odor of her master, but I don’t believe her. Old Anna, after all, also obeys my master, not hers. Anna too has an odor that cannot be found anywhere else. It is pleasant because always accompanied by the odor of food. When she comes into the yard with the big bowl filled with food, I wait for her to put it down and dance happily around her. But once my nose goes into the bowl, it’s all mine. Don’t dare touch it! If Anna herself comes close I bark at her. That way I keep the entire bowl to myself. That’s how life is: first you have to beg to get a thing, then bark to keep it.

People are big and have a big aroma, but some little animals have a big aroma, and odor never lies. Titì, a little dog, has a big aroma of life and love. Two Titìs one on top of the other would not reach Argo’s head (if Argo held his head erect). But, as little as she is, she is very important in this world and in Argo’s life. My master, who is like me in every other way, does not run after Titì, and I can leave him with her without worry: odor doesn’t lie. It would be terrible if that weren’t so and my master took an interest in Titì: he would no longer be my master, but an object to shred to pieces. Terrible!

II

One day I smelled prey in the air. Odor doesn’t tell you everything about prey, but when Argo smells it, he runs with desire or howls with fear.

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He need not see the animal in order to prepare for battle or the pleasure of eating it. He’s suddenly ready. That day I ran driven by desire. Anna called after me to stop but when prey calls I have no doubt unless my master restrains me.

Curious, that prey! It offered up its odor only to the wind. Usually, all stupid things are filled with the prey’s odor, because it has passed over them and left signs everywhere. The odor trembles and quivers on leaves of grass and rises from the naked earth. If he’s present, my master urges me on, but I know better than he, who wobbles on only two legs, while I have three. I’m the one who finds the prey first, then I let my master knock it down. Then it lays there. Before, it was able to preserve part of its odor inside its sack of skin and hair; but now that the sack is torn open, the animal is sincere. It communicates all of itself to the land and air and everything around becomes alive with it.

As I ran that day, it felt like I was chasing an animal that was already sincere, which surprised me, because sincere animals can no longer run. Along the path ahead proceeded a big man and a little man. I ran past them and lost the trace! The wind was empty and mute. I went back on my steps but couldn’t find the trace until again I came behind those two men. It was clear that the odor of the prey emanated from one of those two. In fact, a rucksack hung from the back of the larger of them, and from that sack hung the bloody head of a hare. As a rule, I’m always the one who rouses the hare, then others grab it, but I hadn’t roused this one, so I knew perfectly well it wasn’t mine.

But that was no reason not to enjoy it. I began leaping around the two men and the smaller of the two petted me. I sniffed his odor together with that of the prey, and his became more and more friendly and benevolent, so I followed him. I felt some hesitation, especially when I thought I heard my master’s whistle. But I didn’t smell his odor so I may have been wrong.

The little man with the sweet odor kept on petting me affectionately and those caresses went along with his odor. In fact, the caresses and the odor turned into a single thing. In just the same way, the odor of food and old Anna blend into one another. We proceeded on our way together. I was sure that since my master didn’t stop me, I should follow my dear little friend. We went down and up and crossed a woods and there I discovered a new smell. It wasn’t the animal in the rucksack because that came from above, whereas the new smell had colored the whole path we were walking on. I thought: “Too bad my master’s not here!” Why hadn’t he come too? I flushed that prey out of the dense bush and with one well-aimed shot the man stopped it and put it in the bag together with the hare.

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Now we were even happier together and Argo was petted even by the bigger of the two men. Then we came to a house where there was another old Anna smelling of food and I got lots and lots of it. They didn’t let me visit the whole house but confined me to the kitchen. Later, the little man brought me some straw, so I had a very comfortable place to sleep. Nevertheless, I wasn’t able to. In the darkness, left alone amidst all those new smells, I began to howl: I was calling my master and old Anna too. By now my adventure was over. Why didn’t they come?

Instead, the bigger of the two men came. I jumped up to greet him. With a huge blow he knocked me back to my sleeping place and I understood he wanted me to shut up. I whimpered to myself, alone and quiet, for a long time. It really wasn’t so bad there in the kitchen, and its odor began to seem more agreeable. Blows can make one adapt to anything. The door opened again and the other man, the little one who had been friendlier, came over to me. He put his arm around my neck and his mouth next to mine. I breathed that friendly odor with pleasure. Then he gave me a good piece of meat. But it seemed just a bit small, so I started dancing around to encourage my donor to give me more. As I danced, trying to spur the little man to greater generosity so as to raise our happiness still higher, I started howling again. The little man ran out and shut the door in my face. Although it’s so hard to calm down in a strange place, I finally feel asleep. I dreamed that I no longer had one master, but two, and each one went off in a different direction, so I was unable to follow them both. Later, the same thing happened with my prey. There was so much around that the air itself cried out with it. It was in front and behind and on both sides, the air was full of smell, I didn’t know which way to run and suffered horribly.

The next morning my master came. As soon as I smelled him, I knew I’d done something wrong. I went to him, dragging my belly along the floor to demonstrate my contrition. Then I turned over and put my legs in the air so he’d know I wouldn’t run away or defend myself. He whipped me until I cried. When the beating stopped I was overcome with joy. As I returned toward home, I followed my master, happy now to be free of doubt. It would be terrible to have two masters.

I saw the big and little man several times again because they lived near where Titì lives. But I never followed them again, because you can forget odors, but whippings never.

III

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Titì’s is an unmistakable odor because unique in all the world. It’s unique because sometimes you can smell it even when she’s not there and has never even passed by the place.

I remember one evening I was shut up inside the kitchen with old Anna, curled up by the hearth. In my boredom, I thought back on my jaunts over the mountain with my master or alone. I thought about the smells of prey and people and lay there peacefully, watching Anna and relaxing. Suddenly I remembered once following the odor of a hare (a path the hare had left) when I bumped into Titì, who’d been drawn by the same odor, because Titì and I love the same things. Her powerful odor naturally covered that of the hare, who was forgotten. This memory wouldn’t leave me in peace there in the kitchen, because the odor of Titì now came in through the doors and closed windows. I threw myself against the door to reach Titì because I was sure she must be nearby. Old Anna interpreted my urgent need differently and sent me outside. Once in the open, Titì’s odor was diffused everywhere, just as it had been in the kitchen. The entire vast space spoke of her. I sniffed the stupidest things and there she was; the wind brought her smell and I ran straight into it to be near my beloved. But this time there was no trace to follow, because the aroma came from both left and right. There was so much effluvium of Titì, but she was nowhere to be found.

Titì is a bizarre thing and makes me crazy. Sometimes she even smells like prey, but the only one that I don’t want to be sincere. I want to conserve intact her sack of skin and hair, so nice to lick. I don’t bite and don’t wag my tail, but feel like I want to do both at once, together with a third thing, but I’m not sure what that is. So far she always flees me, though I’m sure I’ve never done her any harm. She seems to laugh when she leaves me behind with my tongue hanging out.

One day I followed my master as he took a walk and we came across Titì: it makes me so happy when it’s unexpected, I can hardly believe my luck. I walked around her several times to make sure it wasn’t some sort of trick. But it was really her, the very fount of the effluvium that intoxicates me. My master had stopped to talk with a lady (Argo here says that I was sniffing the lady, but that’s false and I correct it without hesitation. After all, she was very old). I immediately lost my head because Titì seemed even more sweet and pungent than usual. I thought, “I shall never be without you.” I leapt upon her but was immediately struck with a blow from above that made me howl. I didn’t abandon my love however; in fact I embraced her even tighter, knowing that Titì loves a struggle, but turned my face toward my enemy. Apparently it was my master. Strange, but in that

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moment I couldn’t smell his odor. I swear, in that moment there was nothing but the smell of Titì: I growled and showed my teeth without restraint as one must in moments of great danger. But the blows rained down until they knocked over both me and Titì. Even on the ground I clasped my prey, but she must have gotten some of the blows meant for me; escaping my grasp she fled with tail between her legs. I barked and growled. The spasm of love and pain wouldn’t let go. Finally, I could smell again the odor of my master. It was suddenly there and I didn’t understand where he’d been hiding it all that time. I curled up submissively at his feet and let him beat me as he felt I deserved. But if he isn’t interested in Titì, why does he stop me from pursuing her? The moment will come when he’s not there, and then it won’t matter to him, as nothing matters to him when he’s not there.

IV

Argo alone suffers. In all the world, so beautiful and shiny, there is no other suffering. Odors don’t suffer, and animals always have the same odor, whether covered or sincere. Thus they do not suffer. When sincere their odor becomes intense. But Argo is so different from day to day!

When they put me on the chain I die of boredom. The wind crashes against the fence and I smell indistinct odors crying all together in a cacophony that drives me crazy. Oh! If only I could get on the other side of the wall, where the odors are still separate! Argo has a need to know. He’s not a cat, content merely to hide. To break the boredom I sniff my chain and my doghouse but all I learn is what I already know, that is, that I’ve already been in that house and tied to that chain. Then I weep even more, both for the past and the present. What I communicate to other things is not an odor but is plain just the same. Things say: is it still you, always you? I howl on my chain. I cry out at people to free me and at odors to come down to me. But people and things, who don’t feel pain, don’t heed me.

The chain and muzzle are for Argo alone. The muzzle is a piece of prey but neither covered nor sincere. I don’t know what it is. Certainly, it is a wall between me and the created world, a fog coating life, rendering it less distinct.

True, there is a dog near our house who spends the entire day on his chain. But it doesn’t bother him! Strange beast, that one. I don’t know his name and I don’t think he even has one. What use would a name be; who would ever call him, since he could never come? He sleeps most of the day. When he’s awake, he goes as far away from his doghouse as the chain

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allows and is content to sit there on his hind legs and observe everything that doesn’t have a chain.

He only gets mad when, among the things without a chain, he sees me. It’s not that he wishes me ill. The poor thing doesn’t know any better and thinks a chain is required for all dogs. He thinks it’s a law. Usually I pass by without looking at him, but one day I was with my master and he started barking, and I worried my master would heed his advice to put me on a chain. To make him quiet down I leapt at him and bit his neck. But slipping from my grasp, he left me with a mouthful of hair and knocked me over. Luckily I was able to leap away to where he couldn’t get at me, thanks to his chain. I hurled threats and curses at him from afar as he unleashed all his hatred for me, a free dog. Now, every time I pass by that beast, I provoke him from a safe distance, just to make him feel the disgrace of the chain. He gets so angry he loses his voice. I don’t go too close. What’s the point? He can be master of that little patch of earth. Anyway, he’s very strong and his neck is protected by too much hair. I don’t understand how he could have knocked me over so easily. The chain must help him somehow.

And Argo suffers in other ways that the rest of the world can’t know or feel. When he sees his master pet another dog, he loves his master even more than usual, but with a love made of pain. Why does he pet others? Aren’t I enough? Maybe he does it so that Argo will behave better; in fact, in that moment, I would obey more quickly than usual no matter what he wanted. But he wants nothing from me and pets the other. My hatred for this other is also made of pain. I’m not allowed to tear him to bits because my master is there, and I’m afraid to let him see my anger because he might take pleasure in it. I thrust myself between the intruder and my master to divide them because if they are separate I stop suffering, so I go between them as though by chance. My master shoos me away but I stubbornly keep invading that small terrain and wag my tail, pretending a happiness I’m far from feeling. That’s what pain is: I want to howl to relieve my soul but then I’d lose hope of separating that ugly beast from my master. You must hide your pain away and find a way to please your master once again. Then when the other finally goes away, I find my master whole again and all his odor. The other hasn’t taken away anything. And I tell myself: You see, it was stupid to suffer! But the next time it happens just the same because Argo is made to suffer.

It is equally true, however, that Argo is the only one who knows how to enjoy and laugh. When he goes out with his master, especially in that first moment when they remove my chain, my body becomes joy itself. I know that when my master wants to laugh, he closes his eyes a little and opens his

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mouth. But joy to me is something else entirely. It tosses me here and there, and with the least effort I make huge leaps. Sometimes, not even the harshest blows can stop the joy I feel in my master’s company. When I’m alone, the joy is the same but I jump less. My leaps are for my master so that he feels joy too and understands that he need not chain me.

How wonderful the crowded street! This stone was visited by Titì and when I smell her odor I see her and hug her. I look at my master to see whether he understands. He must not notice that odor, because he doesn’t beat me. Then I forget about Titì because I know that when my master’s there, the savor’s not the same. Some prey has left a trace that crosses the street. My master watches me follow the trace but calls me back because he doesn’t have his rifle with him. So many dogs have passed this way today! Three! At the base of that trunk, one has left me a greeting. Where are you now, unknown friend?

But my master walks down the street without deviating even a single step to check the odors. His senses are stronger than Argo’s, so he doesn’t need to stick his nose in smells to enjoy them.

V

Not far from our house there’s a large, deep ravine, and I like to rest there by it. One day I saw a man on the opposite side, which is steepest, run down and down, faster and faster. He wasn’t running on his legs. He was stopped by a bush. He didn’t yell because otherwise I would have yelled along with him; but he paused there, hesitating. Then he tore away the bush he’d grabbed onto and disappeared down below. I could hear the snapping and rustling of branches and leaves as he passed. I wanted to follow him to see what he was doing in that place I thought of as mine. Then I was called and didn’t think about it anymore.

But the next day the man down there stunk like a mass of slaughtered animals. He must certainly have been lying in his own blood. My master, who must have smelled it just as I did, wouldn’t let me go. A few days later the aroma screamed still louder and reached me even on my chain, which became even more agonizing than usual, so, when Anna freed me, I was determined to satisfy my curiosity. I didn’t even stop for the meal ready for me and ran to the ravine. Anna called after me and I think even my master whistled, but I’m not sure. I descended into the ravine and as I jumped from rock to rock the smell of the man and his blood grew sharper and sharper. Finally, there he was with his head open. I started howling with pleasure, but then heard, clear and commanding, the whistle of my master. There was no

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mistaking it and I had to obey. But after so much effort, it hurt to have to leave. I was starting back up when I saw the man’s beret, soaked with blood. I took it in my mouth and it made the long path up easier because the smell was mine. My master seemed cross but didn’t strike me. He took the beret in hand to smell it better and I thought he was analyzing the odor to find out what I’d done and whether I deserved a beating. He didn’t beat me! He wouldn’t give me back my beret, but kept it for himself, like some sort of prey.

The next day I managed to escape from old Anna again and returned to the ravine. There was something new! The odor by now was scattered all along the trail I’d followed the day before; I first caught it up on the road where there was even a drop of blood. That man must have fled! In fact, he was gone; only his blood remained, which he couldn’t take with him. So I went back up the trail of that odor and was so immersed in my work that I didn’t hear my master’s whistle. Along the way, I couldn’t tell whether the odor went to the left or right; it was perplexing. Up on the street, I found myself suddenly before my master. He didn’t beat me! On the contrary, he closed his eyes slightly and opened his mouth. Out of sheer joy, I forgot the man and his beret and leapt howling around my master, who petted me. Thus I learned that some animals can flee even after death.

VI

How various the air! Up on that crag there must be a big bird torn open by a bullet. Why would he go up there to spread his aroma? I wanted to clamber up to him but was called back. Men, who can smell from afar, don’t realize that I have to get close to things to understand them fully.

One day my master shot a small bird and I brought it to him. It was still trembling gaily in my mouth, but was so miniscule, just a little clump of living feathers. My master took it in hand and threw it away. Then the snow fell and no one went out for some days. When I crossed that way again, I raised the little bird out of the snow, from which he’d called me with his exquisite odor through the thick mantle covering him. I took it in my mouth and carried it triumphantly to my master. But my master didn’t want the odor taken from where it was and struck me until I opened my mouth and let the prey go.

When my master was gone and it didn’t matter to him anymore, I went back to that little bird. There was nothing left now but down and feathers and his round little head leaning back, devoid of eyes. His smell was the same as when alive, but much stronger! Certainly, his life must be much

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stronger now, as he gathers himself in repose to form into a bigger bird. No longer will he be so fragile as to be killed by a single bead of birdshot ricocheting off a branch. He’ll be an enormous bird that will take flight one day, carrying his living pain through the air. Killing him will require a direct shot to the heart, as my master well knows. And he’ll come down with his wings folded and his head under his body in search of new repose and new life.

VII

Man is a much simpler animal than a dog, because he smells more, and more easily. When he meets another man he touches his hand, and seems almost disinterested in what’s behind the hand. When Argo meets another dog, on the other hand, he prudently brings the toothed part of his own body close to the untoothed part of the other, and sniffs. He surveys and immediately threatens. The other, if a good devil, must demonstrate his good faith by offering up his rear so that Argo can investigate it thoroughly. Finally, it seems only fair that Argo submit to the same operation. Difficulty arises when neither of the two wants to be first to offer himself unarmed to inspection, and we end up biting. Sometimes even an inspection begun in a spirit of reciprocal beneficence can end badly. In such cases it’s hard to say what sparked the fight. It’s a matter of a hostile smell that suddenly reaches your nose and turns your mind to hate. “So it’s you, is it!” one asks the other, attacking lustfully. There’s always the doubt that the other isn’t the source, but the smell is just right: hostile and disagreeable. When the odor is there, error is impossible, or perhaps it would take too long to find out just when it wouldn’t be prudent to pause, giving the other a chance to attack first. Odor speaks clear: It imposes that you attack or warns you of an imminent attack by the other, which is the same thing. Once the biting starts, all doubt ceases. Perhaps wounds improve clarity. Spurting blood cries out its intention.

One day I attacked another dog and would have strangled it if its master hadn’t intervened. I met the dog again when its master wasn’t around and would gladly have attacked it again, but he threw himself on the ground with his paws in the air. Finding his odor had changed, I spared him, which goes to show that odors learn lessons too. Since then, every time I meet that dog, he mildly lets me investigate him and I find his odor to be friendly and good. But I don’t allow him to sniff me. Because I know my odor hasn’t changed, there’s no point, and could be dangerous.

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The shepherd dog who passes by here every day got angry at me, knocked me down, and would have slit my throat if both our masters hadn’t intervened. I stood back up much the worse for wear and yelled out all the breath in my body against the injustice that had been done me. I also thought I would seek the opportunity for revenge because I didn’t fear that dog and would certainly be capable of defending against him: Sometimes a sly strategy of war is to let oneself be knocked down, because the bite is more effective from below. However, the next time I saw him I thought to myself, what’s the point of fighting, after all? From the powerful odor he gave off, I felt more of a wish for protection than battle. Obviously, one must obey odor, so I threw myself down with my paws in the air, knowing that he would find no malice in me. He did in fact leave me in peace, but didn’t allow me to investigate him in turn. There was no need! I guarantee there was no malevolence in him.

VIII

We had a visitor: a stray dog! He told me he didn’t always get to eat but ran free every day in search of adventure. It must be great to go always forward, following smells; but I can’t imagine the world without my master, and to go always forward I’d have to abandon him, since people stand still and wait for smells to come to them. A fine companion, that little white dog with curly hair. True, as long as he stayed with us I wanted to bite him because my master petted him. But when he went away I felt very lonely and wanted him back so badly I wouldn’t have stopped him from stealing caresses meant for me. He was perfectly made for play. You could knock him over easily because he’d discovered it took less effort; anyway, he was always falling down all by himself from bumping into obstacles in our house. He wasn’t accustomed to obstacles because our house isn’t as simple as the woods.

Another thing he wasn’t used to was restraining himself from spreading aromas all over the house. What whippings he got! And the dimwit could never understand the reason why! Once beaten for doing his business in a corner of the room, he responded by doing it next time right in the middle. That was worse! Finally he didn’t dare go in the presence of our master, not even when outside. “How do you do it?” he asked me worriedly. “If it goes on like this, even though I like it here with you, I’m going to have to run away, because for me the command to go is so strong.” I explained that the master didn’t want that stuff in his own den, but that it was fine outside. He couldn’t believe me. One day when we were outside he just had

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to go in the presence of the master. He couldn’t resist! As he answered the call of nature, he craned his neck to study the master as closely as possible, ready to flee at any moment, which requires a lot of effort when you’re nailed in one spot.

Once he learned the law he asked me why it was so, and the curious thing is that I was unable to explain. I was sure that one must not do it in the den (Argo would never ever do that) but that outside it was permitted. Later, just before he went away, my friend, who thought often on this, figured it out: inside the den, aromas weren’t necessary, because in such a restricted space it’s easy to orient oneself without their assistance. Aromas weren’t useful except out in the open, and my master kept vigilant watch to see they weren’t wasted.

IX

The greatest difference between man and dog is that men don’t know the pleasure that comes from the cessation of a beating. One day we were walking along our street when a woman who had been walking with my master suddenly began beating him with her umbrella. I growled and wanted to tear her to bits. But my master stopped me and, holding me by the collar, began to run. The woman wasn’t able to catch up and I began jumping around my master to take part in his joy. But he struck me harshly with his whip. When he stopped, it seemed the right moment to celebrate the cessation of those blows for both of us. Instead he whipped me again, so I have come to believe that after men have been beaten, they crave quiet.

There’s another great difference between dog and man. Man changes his mood every moment the way a sly rabbit changes direction. On the other hand, it takes a lot to change a dog’s mood. Sometimes Argo is cheerful and loves everyone. He cuts the air with his tail because there is no suspicion in him and knows no one wants to grab that defenseless part. Then he’s assailed by doubt: maybe there’s someone who doesn’t wish him well. But doubt is vanquished by the tail that cries to the four winds, “All is well and we’re all friends.” It’s hard to stop that tail unless there’s a clear need to hide it between one’s legs. But man is an unfortunate animal because he lacks a tail.

One day after eating, my master and I were resting quietly in our den when Anna came to tell us we had visitors. My master cried out; I don’t know whether from pleasure or the opposite. I quickly found out, or thought I had. Uncertain, I began wagging my tail, but he gave me a kick. That

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seemed quite reasonable to me, because it made clear what mood he was in, so I moved away.

We went into the garden to meet the guests and I followed my master at a reasonable distance. If I could have, I would have warned the visitors, a man and a woman.

To my surprise, I watched my master run to greet them, bow, and even open his mouth and half-close his eyes like he does when happy since he doesn’t have a tail. Apparently his mood had completely changed though I could swear nothing new had taken place. There was no reason not to celebrate such a favorable mutation, so I leapt to join the party and remind my master that, since he’d earlier given me a kick, I was now in need of petting. Instead, he gave me an even more violent kick than before and my surprise was equal to my pain.

I followed him at a distance in disbelief at my misfortune because he had already started opening his mouth and closing his eyes as he spoke with the visitors. Anyone who had not received that kick - impossible to forget -would have thought my master full of joy and good cheer. Dismayed at my fate, I followed a long time from afar. I watched him laugh and smile and bend, and became more and more convinced that it was nothing but a huge misunderstanding. I cannot stay angry at my master and so, after some hesitation, I jumped up on him to reach the happiest part of his body, his face. With a violent punch, he knocked me upside down, then immediately returned to wagging his tail with the others. I was devastated. His mood changed completely whenever I came near.

When the two visitors went away, I accompanied my master at a reasonable distance as far as the door, and when he finally shut the door on those horrible people, I couldn’t restrain myself and let out a growl. That visit had cost me too much and I hated those two. My master immediately came toward me. Fearing that he wanted to punish me for my threat toward his friends, I dropped my belly on the floor to avoid falling if he chose to strike me. Instead, he gave me caress after caress. No one will believe this story true, but I tell it exactly as it happened.

X

They put me on the chain. I suspect they had something good to eat and didn’t want to share it with Argo. Anna went away without looking behind, while I watched her until she disappeared into the house, hoping she might repent of her cruelty. I howled for a while, hoping to move them to pity, or at least bother them, but no one heeded my complaints.

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Then I had a pleasant surprise and forgot my suffering. I wasn’t alone on the chain. Maybe before leaving that good Anna had thought to relieve my state by leaving an old shoe nearby. A smelly shoe. The man who had used it must have walked quite a bit. In one corner of the shoe there was a little nail that smelled of dried blood. I didn’t tire of turning that shoe around and around. I came slowly to understand that if an object is not alive, it cries, its life resonating from that sound. Hostile or friendly, that life? Hostile. When such odorous shoes enter the house, I shun them, because they’re so different from the smells I’m used to. I get angry and want to tear the resistant shoe to bits. It resists as though alive. It isn’t easy to rend its fiber. But now, my nose deep into previously unaccassible places, another odor comes forth. Older but no less clear. I make peace with the shoe because the new odor is not hostile, so I stop tearing at it. I tease it, giving it little blows so it hops about cheerfully, cheerfully. See, tearing apart a shoe is like running free through the fields. One vista succeeds upon another and melancholy vanishes.

At a certain point the shoe received too strong a blow and fell beyond the reach of the chain. It’s lost to me and I return to suffering my slavery. Oh! When will they come get me? At a safe distance now, the shoe again gives off a hostile aroma,

When after many hours old Anna finally came to liberate me, I no longer cared to play with the shoe. Abundant effluvia came from everywhere, calling me imperiously. It must be that to be able to enjoy certain things, you require the chain first. I gave the shoe a quick sniff and ran off.

Unfortunately I didn’t think to put the shoe back to where I could reach on the chain. I regretted that the next day when I found myself enchained again and alone. When finally freed, I committed just the same error, but didn’t notice until I was hooked again. But worrying about the chain when free would diminish the great joy of my liberty.

XI

My master is reading and I’m next to the stove. This den is delicious. The heat from the stove fills the air with aromas. My master must prefer that big chair because of the odor it emanates. A long time ago, a man must have become sincere in that chair. His blood covered the fabric and dripped to the ground along one of the wooden legs. But then the chair was over in the corner where the floor smells. By day, with the windows open, you can barely smell that odor murmuring weakly. In the evening, with the heat from

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the stove, it cries out, “Seek me!” and I seek. But the body of that man must not lay here nearby. Every evening I seek that friend of mine in vain. They must have taken him far away.

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