The Trick To Being A Dog

I can be a dog. It's something I do when I want. 

You can pat my back, stroking the fur along my spine. I'll wag for you.

Everyone knows I'm a dog because I'm panting; because my tongue's hanging out. They say, "Come here, doggy," and "Do you have a name, doggy?" but I don't answer because I'm a dog.

I like to be scratched behind the ears, and to crawl into your lap. You say this is my imagination, but it's you who is imagining. I am a dog; it's you who sees a child on all fours.

You were once able to do it too, but if you're old enough to read this, it's likely you've lost the courage to travel to this Never Never Land that occupies the very same space and time as the humdrum affairs. Some of you pretend you're a dog, camping it up with sly winks to the crowd. I like it, don't get me wrong, but you aren't really a dog.

Did I say you can't do this? Of course you can, and of course you do, just not out here in the world where the rest of the people can see you. Those few who do let it out are the rocket men who live their dreams among the stars. But most grown-ups keep it inside, not letting any part of it leak out, lest the rest of the world point and say, "You're not a dog," "You're just pretending," "You will fail," "You cannot," "I will not let you," "It cannot be." That's what really sucks about being a grown-up. The other people try to fill you up with their doubts, with their own imagination that can only see a child on all-fours.

I know that everyone else is a dog too, behind their self-imposed kennel fences, barking their envy, trying to bark you back behind your own fence, craving in their souls to join you on the outside, collecting pats on the back and scratches behind the ears.

The trick to being a dog, is to be one.

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