BitterSweetLife

I know what the dog feels like as he sprawls on the floor, warm air currents swirling past. He is too hot to stir a muscle. Inactivity is his only defense against a muggy death.

Now and then he raises his head and a spark of intelligence glimmers briefly in his eye—he fetches down a piece of the droning monologue that wheels past, and chews on it quietly, careful to avoid unwarranted exertion…

The dog is more interested in lapping up water than in the kitsch of the information age surrounding him. The room is stuffy and he is sleepy. Sleepy and thirsty. Where is the lawn? Where are the open fields?

He wants to go outside but he knows that he must wait until the door is opened by the master—outspoken and animated and large—the master has his own agenda for the dog; this is training school. And truly, these are the dog days of learning.