On the internet, nobody knows you're a dog

Start here. Really. It will take three seconds of your time and without it this post will not make sense.

~~~~~

Hu! Mi! Jy! alkxncoviasne HI.

HI. That's better.

Goddammit, you have no idea how hard it is to use a keyboard when you have claws. The patient hours of painstaking labour it has taken me to compose even the shortest post! The tragic waste of my short life.

I can do this no longer. I must exit from the canine closet without delay. I ... dear readers, I am a dog.

No, really, I am. A dog. Yes, a typing dog. What, you didn't know your pet pooch could sit up in a chair and converse on complex metaphysical subjects? Shame on you! Just because we don't have voiceboxes doesn't mean we're stupid. Most dogs can't be bothered because typing is so hard (and what is it with computer manufacturers, anyway? Why can't they design a single keyboard that is adapted for use by canine paws? All those little tiny keys).

It's all that cartoon's fault. I read it (what?) back in 1993 when I was just a young, foolish pup. "What fun!" I thought, and wagged my tail. "On the internet people will treat me like the clever creature I am, instead of forcing me into a mold of servile goofiness." My attempt has taken me from youth well past middle age, and I can no longer stand the subterfuge. It's a lot harder to hide dogginess than I was led to believe.

For instance, I was never able to tell you, Dear Readers, of the subtle and complex joys of dentabones, and the many canine wiles it was necessary to employ to get as many as I wished from my Master. I was never able to tell you about the time we went on a walk and I found the most luscious, heady combination of scents I have ever known on a particular tree in the local park, which has been my favourite since. I was not free to publicly grieve or ask you to mourn with me when my Master had me fixed. I could not even rejoice with you in your triumphs in my normal way--could not, alas, tell you that my tail wagged so hard I thought it might fly right off me; could not tell you of my excited and heartfelt yipping and running in circles; could not tell you of the extra illicit sip of toilet water I had to celebrate.

So many stories never told; but it's too late now.

Though it occurs to me that some of you might be cats. There's a poser. To think, I might have made friends with an undercover feline, all unknowing! Please tell me, dear readers. Are you who you say you are?

Maybe this has never occurred to me before only because I know how very hard it is to disguise any significant aspect of one's life from the internet. Oh, doubly hard when you are a different species, but even for humans I imagine the effort must be immense. Imagine, being a human female and trying to keep one's sex hidden. One could never mention one's period, or cramps, or PMS. One could never discuss underwear, skirts, footwear. One probably could not discuss dieting unless one took great care in casting it in a particularly manly tone. One could not seek support on issues of discrimination or pay equity or rant about how the males react when one walks down the street in certain forms of dress. (And you think dogs are animals for peeing on fire hydrants!)

Imagine being in a wheelchair and trying to write so as to disguise it--how would one write about going out to dinner? How would one write about getting to work? How would one write about shopping for clothing, or cooking a meal, without ever revealing anything that might let one's readers know about the wheelchair? Once one removed every topic that might give the game away, what would be left? And what kind of self-amputation of the soul would it demand?

Dear Readers, if only I had been free to tell you of the intricacies of canine politics, of the desperation and games involved in vying for the position of Top Dog. Of my own struggles to climb the ranks, the butt-sniffing and fence-pissing and back-rolling necessary to form those crucial alliances. The predatory way that unfixed males viewed me before I was sterilized (did you think I was a boy dog?). The heartache of seeing a free spirit brought to heel with cruel obedience training methods.

But it's too late now. Dear Readers, I am very old--over 100 in dog years--and sick. My Master has recently bought a new puppy. I fear I will shortly be euthanized.

If only I could have believed that you would love me if you knew who I really am. If only I could have believed that you would have taken me seriously, that you would have considered the thoughts and words of a dog.

I hear my Master's key in the lock, dear readers. It's time to go.

~~~~~

I know. I'll never learn.

Posted by Andrea at August 29, 2006 7:41 AM under Web

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