(Dogless people may think this gross -- the rest of us understand.)

A Philosophy Lesson

by

Zvi Zaks

The class was held in a grassy clearing enclosing a hill strewn with students, twelve of them waiting patiently for the professor. Some murmured among themselves, while others, lying on the ground, simply enjoyed the gentle breezes and forest smells of the warm spring afternoon. One younger student stared straight ahead, mesmerized by flickering shadows cast by leaves swaying in the wind, while another stretched, got up and sprinted around the hill to exercise his muscles.

Finally the professor, known affectionately as "J.J.", hobbled to his class. He was an old dog, ravaged by arthritis and occasionally forgetful, but, even in his dotage, with a mind sharper and more incisive than the brightest of the young pups whom he was about to address. J.J. was a revered scholar who truly merited the coveted degree of A.K. (Acquirer of Knowledge) because he loved to impart his wisdom to the younger generation.

He shuffled to the front of the students, most of whom quieted at his approach, though some conversations persisted. "Ahem," he barked sharply. The hill became silent. "We will open the class with a prayer." Sighs resounded among the students, some of whom looked to the heavens in quite unprayerful manner. "Oh Great Canine, who created heaven and earth and all dogs, and who created twolegs to feed and provide homes for us," the Sheltie intoned, "grant they we may always have green grass under our feet for us to run on, squirrels and Frisbees to chase, and freedom from fleas. And when our days on this world are done, may we go to You in that Great Park In The Sky, where dogs are happy for all eternity. Amen."

"Amen," the students answered.

"This is a philosophy class," the professor explained. "We will today be discussing Things And What They Mean. This course is for intellectual edification only, not for practical use. Those of you who wish to learn techniques of tormenting cats or the quickest method of digging deep holes must register for those courses." A beagle and a dachshund trotted away. The professor shook his head in disgust. "Some dogs just won't read the syllabus," he snarled.

A black lab, ears perked with enthusiasm, asked, "What is today's topic, professor."

"Patience, Shachor," said the Sheltie kindly. The black lab was his favorite, though he tried not to show it. "Today we will be discussing the mystery of the poops." A murmur of interest swept through the class. Even the mangy mutt lifted an eyebrow.

The elderly professor continued. "As you all know, among the blessings given us by the Great Canine is the ability to produce poops. It is a pleasant sensation, not as pleasant as eating, to be sure, or even of chasing a cat or digging for gophers..."

"Or mounting a bitch in heat," piped up an amiable Great Dane, his tongue lolling far out of his mouth.

"Yes. That is also said to be pleasurable."

The mongrel snickered. He, the great Dane, and two others in the group had never suffered the accident of nether parts falling against a veterinarian's scalpel. The rest of the class, including the professor, had not been that lucky. The old Sheltie ignored the snicker and continued his lecture.

"The poops are also useful as a means of communication. Olfactory analysis of them informs us who has been in the area, how recently, and the general state of health of the visitor. From this information we can deduce in whose territory we are standing and, of course, we have the means to declare our own territories. This facilitates order in our societies. Indeed, without the poops, anarchy would reign."

"Professor, we all know this. Every puppy knows this," whined a large black poodle.

"Show more respect for the professor," snapped the Labrador quickly. "He's a good professor. I love the professor. I love the professor," he panted several times, eagerness exuding from every pore.

"Thank you, Shachor," said the teacher. "Now, may we continue? Yes, this is all basic. The mystery comes in consideration of the twolegs. One of the basic philosophical questions of caninedom regards the nature of the twolegs. We know that the Great Canine, who created everything, created them. The question is, are they some species of angel, who are able to serve the Deity directly, or are they simply another form of dog, quite different in external manifestation, but sharing the same basic essence as we enjoy. I believe analysis of the mystery of the poops will enable us to resolve this eternal perplexity." A chorus of 'oohs' greeted this assertion.

"Consider first, that we are not allowed to produce poops within the dwellings of the twolegs. Who of us does not cringe at the memory of the cry 'Bad dog,' uttered by an angry twoleg viciously smacking a newspaper into his palm? Ah, even today, the thought distresses me." Heads nodded in agreement. This ability to speak his students' language was what made J.J. a magnificent teacher. "And why, if poops are good, if poops are beneficent gifts from the Creator Dog, why should this be?"

A Doberman in the second row raised his paw. "Maybe the twolegs don't like the smell," he growled awkwardly.

"Don't be ridiculous, Rollie," the professor snapped. "I make allowances for you because you're slow, but that comment is simply beyond the pale." The embarrassed Doberman covered his eyes with his paws.

A large mixed Lab spoke. "Uh, maybe they are afraid we, uh, will make the house our territory."

"Very good, Sam. I'm glad to see you volunteering. And that is, of course, the correct answer. They do not want us to establish territoriality in their domain. No mystery there. But consider, how do they establish territoriality themselves?

"We know they have territoriality. Visitors come but do not stay. Yet the twolegs apparently do not themselves produce poops. Neither I, nor anyone with whom I have spoken, nor anyone of whom I have ever heard has actually seen for themselves a twoleg produce poops. I believe they cannot produce poops, that they are, for all their wonderful gifts and abilities, deficient in that one respect. So how, without poops, is their territoriality maintained?"

"They pass gas," a cocker spaniel offered.

"You mean they fart," grinned the mutt.

"Show some respect. Puppies fart. Two legs pass gas," the teacher said.

"I don't care about no twolegs and I poop wherever I want," the mongrel snarled.

The Sheltie took a deep breath. "Arafat, we understand your impoverished condition ..."

"You mean I don't got a twolegs myself. That's okay. Say it. I'm doing just fine on my own. I don't need your pity," he screamed.

Shachor jumped three times. "I love my twolegs. I love my twolegs," he yipped, ran around the hill, and collapsed in front of the professor.

"Well, let us continue," the A.K. sighed. "The twolegs do not produce poops..."

"They pee. I've seen them peeing several times. I know they pee," Tigger, a Chihuahua, yelped excitedly.

"Yes, but always in the same spot, always a white smooth stone with a hole in it. This is quite an ineffective means to establish territoriality. Now, may I please continue," he growled sternly and looked around the class. No one uttered a sound, not even a whimper.

"Let us now shift to another aspect of the poops. Consider what happens each day to the poops we produce adjacent to the house. I have studied this phenomenon carefully, and it is really quite interesting." The dog smiled with intellectual satisfaction. "Every day the twolegs comes around with a shiny metal thing, pushes the poops onto it (which is interesting in itself, I watch very carefully) and then -- and here is the fascinating part -- the poop disappears. Just like that. It's gone. I have searched the entire yard without being able to find any trace of poops I quite clearly remember producing just a short while ago. It's riveting."

The students contemplated this wisdom, all except the mutt, who looked around in disgust. Finally, a German Shepherd asked, "But Professor J.J., how does all this relate to the nature of the twolegs?"

"Ah, Che, I'm coming to that. Let us review what we have established so far. First, the twolegs do not allow us to produce poops in their dwellings. Secondly, they are unable to produce any poops themselves, although they do manage to maintain territoriality. Thirdly, they cause our poops mysteriously to disappear. Let us make one more observation and then I will state my hypothesis.

"Magic is the final element. We all perform simple magic, as, for example, when we convert a squirrel or a bird from a lively plaything into an inactive and delicious bit of meat. This is magic. We don't know how it works, but it is effective."

A boxer spoke up. "Why can't we do the reverse, change meat into playthings?"

"Why would we want to? Eating is more important than playing."

"But we always have enough food, at least at my house." He looked at the mutt and snickered.

"That's enough, Buddy," the professor chided. Smart-assed whelp, he thought but didn't say it because he wanted to maintain class decorum. "To continue, the twolegs are masters of magic. Par excellance. They can bring noise and light instantly from cold, lifeless boxes. High grade magic. They can change the appearance of entire houses. They can make water appear at will from long narrow tubes equally for drinking or for the dreaded bath." The puppies laughed nervously.

"So their ability to do wonderful magic is the final fact in constructing my hypothesis. And really, it all fits in. What happens is this; the twolegs, unable to produce their own poops, take ours instead, work a strange magic so we can no longer see or even find them, and smear the transformed poops in their houses and on themselves, pretending they are their own. Thus they protect their territoriality. And thus, because they share with us the quality of protecting territory by poops, the twolegs must indeed be, in their essence, dogs themselves." The students, all except the mongrel, stared, open mouthed at this brilliant disclosure. "And for the final proof, consider the strange and often unpleasant odors we encounter in their houses, at times horrible smelling liquids which they keep in bottles and which they rub on their bodies. No forest or meadow created by the Great Canine ever generated such odors. Those odors come from the transformed poops."

Applause thundered over the elderly Sheltie who graciously nodded his head and accepted their adulation. Then that venerable Acquirer of Knowledge hobbled off into the sunset. Behind him, enlightened and grateful dogs discussed his illuminating discourse for the rest of that day and long into the night.

Copyright 1998. This means only that you should give me credit by including my E-mail (Fiddlerzvi@att.net) and webpage (http://home.att.net/~fiddlerzvi/) address and this copyright  notice if you share this story with anyone.

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Revised 11/01