For years Sussman’s dog didn’t talk. Then one morning in the middle of going out the door, claws clicking on the hardwood, he turned and spoke, in a clear voice, at a moderate volume, with an accent that was distinct but also difficult to place (Virginia? Maryland? he had been born in Illinois as far as Sussman knew). “Do you want to know what I think?” the dog said. Sussman did, intensely. “What, Oliver?” he said, feeling foolish as soon as the words had left his mouth. The dog had been called something else when he had come to Sussman. It was presumptuous to have hung another name on him. But Oliver responded to Oliver amiably. “I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Not just you you, but all of you. All the humans. And I’ve come to one conclusion.” Sussman leaned in for wisdom. “What I’ve learned is that everyone is a bubble, and everyone is also the stick that can burst it.” Tears sprung to Sussman’s eyes. Oliver was right, exactly right, more right than any dog had ever been. He stepped forward in appreciation, but Oliver was already making his way to the lawn for his daily constitutional. He never spoke again.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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