seeing the dog. Why do people say the past
doesn’t return? It had all happened so quickly, I’d had no time to think. I’d always
lived in the present because simply taking it in and reacting to it used up
practically all my physical and mental energy. I could manage the immediate, but
only just. I always felt that too many things were happening at once and that I had
to make a superhuman effort and summon more strength than I possessed simply to cope
with the now. That’s why whenever an opportunity arose to free myself of a burden in
any way at all, I didn’t bother with ethical scruples. I had to get rid of anything
that wasn’t strictly necessary for my survival; I had to secure a bit of space, or
peace, at any cost. How this might harm others didn’t trouble me because the
consequences weren’t immediate, so I couldn’t see them. And once again the present
was ridding me of a troublesome guest. The incident left a bittersweet taste in my
mouth: on one hand, there was relief at having escaped so narrowly; on the other, an
understandable remorse. How sad it was to be a dog. To live with death so close at
hand, and so implacable. And sadder still to be
that
dog, who had thrown
off resignation to the destiny of his kind, but only to show that the wound once
inflicted on him had never healed. His silhouette against the light of a Buenos
Aires Sunday, in a state of constant agitation, racing and barking, had played the
role of a ghost, returning from the dead or, rather, from the pain of living, to
demand . . . what? Reparation? An apology? A pat? What else could he have wanted? It
can’t have been revenge, because he would surely have learned from experience that
he was powerless against the unassailable world of humans. He could only express
himself; he’d done that, and all it had achieved was to strain his weary old heart.
He’d been defeated by the mute, metallic expression of a bus driving away, and a
face watching him through the window. How had he recognized me? I must have changed
a lot too. His memory of me was obviously vivid; perhaps it had been present in his
mind all those years, never fading for a moment. No one really knows how a dog’s
mind works. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that he’d recognized my
smell; there are amazing stories about the olfactory powers of animals. For example,
a male butterfly smelling a female miles away, through all the thousands of
intervening smells. I was beginning to speculate in a detached, intellectual way.
The barking was an echo, varying in pitch, now higher now lower, as if it were
coming from another dimension. Suddenly I was jolted from my thoughts by a hunch
that I could feel all through my body. I realized that I had been too quick to
declare victory. The bus had been speeding up, but now it was slowing down again: it
was what the drivers always did when the next stop came into sight. They
accelerated, gauging the distance still to go, then lifted their foot, and let the
bus glide to the stop. Yes, it was slowing down, pulling over to the sidewalk. I sat
up straight and looked out. An old lady and a child were waiting to catch the bus.
The barking was getting louder again. Could the dog have kept running? Hadn’t he
given up? I didn’t look, but he must have been very close. The bus had already
stopped. The child jumped in, but the woman was taking her time; that high step was
difficult for a lady of her age. I was silently shouting, Come
on
, old bag!
and anxiously watching her movements. I don’t normally speak or think like that; it
was because of the stress I was under, but I got a grip on myself immediately. There
was really no need to worry. Maybe the dog would make up some lost ground, but then
he would lose it again. In the worst case, he’d come and bark right in front of my
window in a very obvious way, and the other passengers would see that I was the one
he was chasing. But all I had to do was deny any knowledge of the
doesn’t return? It had all happened so quickly, I’d had no time to think. I’d always
lived in the present because simply taking it in and reacting to it used up
practically all my physical and mental energy. I could manage the immediate, but
only just. I always felt that too many things were happening at once and that I had
to make a superhuman effort and summon more strength than I possessed simply to cope
with the now. That’s why whenever an opportunity arose to free myself of a burden in
any way at all, I didn’t bother with ethical scruples. I had to get rid of anything
that wasn’t strictly necessary for my survival; I had to secure a bit of space, or
peace, at any cost. How this might harm others didn’t trouble me because the
consequences weren’t immediate, so I couldn’t see them. And once again the present
was ridding me of a troublesome guest. The incident left a bittersweet taste in my
mouth: on one hand, there was relief at having escaped so narrowly; on the other, an
understandable remorse. How sad it was to be a dog. To live with death so close at
hand, and so implacable. And sadder still to be
that
dog, who had thrown
off resignation to the destiny of his kind, but only to show that the wound once
inflicted on him had never healed. His silhouette against the light of a Buenos
Aires Sunday, in a state of constant agitation, racing and barking, had played the
role of a ghost, returning from the dead or, rather, from the pain of living, to
demand . . . what? Reparation? An apology? A pat? What else could he have wanted? It
can’t have been revenge, because he would surely have learned from experience that
he was powerless against the unassailable world of humans. He could only express
himself; he’d done that, and all it had achieved was to strain his weary old heart.
He’d been defeated by the mute, metallic expression of a bus driving away, and a
face watching him through the window. How had he recognized me? I must have changed
a lot too. His memory of me was obviously vivid; perhaps it had been present in his
mind all those years, never fading for a moment. No one really knows how a dog’s
mind works. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that he’d recognized my
smell; there are amazing stories about the olfactory powers of animals. For example,
a male butterfly smelling a female miles away, through all the thousands of
intervening smells. I was beginning to speculate in a detached, intellectual way.
The barking was an echo, varying in pitch, now higher now lower, as if it were
coming from another dimension. Suddenly I was jolted from my thoughts by a hunch
that I could feel all through my body. I realized that I had been too quick to
declare victory. The bus had been speeding up, but now it was slowing down again: it
was what the drivers always did when the next stop came into sight. They
accelerated, gauging the distance still to go, then lifted their foot, and let the
bus glide to the stop. Yes, it was slowing down, pulling over to the sidewalk. I sat
up straight and looked out. An old lady and a child were waiting to catch the bus.
The barking was getting louder again. Could the dog have kept running? Hadn’t he
given up? I didn’t look, but he must have been very close. The bus had already
stopped. The child jumped in, but the woman was taking her time; that high step was
difficult for a lady of her age. I was silently shouting, Come
on
, old bag!
and anxiously watching her movements. I don’t normally speak or think like that; it
was because of the stress I was under, but I got a grip on myself immediately. There
was really no need to worry. Maybe the dog would make up some lost ground, but then
he would lose it again. In the worst case, he’d come and bark right in front of my
window in a very obvious way, and the other passengers would see that I was the one
he was chasing. But all I had to do was deny any knowledge of the
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