I expect you will recall the dramatic climax of Walking the Dog 1—the furtive voiding of the bowels on a selected spot of lawn, preceded and followed by the Turd Dance. Walking the Dog 2 is a more cerebral affair, being a succession of brief visits to upright objects, bushes and rocks, on some sort of spiritual quest. After a period of nose-to-the-ground detection and analysis, Gus will stop abruptly, re-sniff a specific spot, think about what he has sniffed, and sniff again. After further consideration, usually he will lift his hind leg and deposit a small amount of pee on the spot—an act of sufficient importance that he seems to ration his supply for this purpose—and when his supply of olfactory ink has run out he will go through the motions anyway, which is quite touching. Often, however, he will stop, sniff, think and move on without comment.

By what criterion, one might ask? Assuming that the procedure is a response to the pissing of other dogs (a Joni Mitchell tune perhaps?), and given that the nose of a dog is an instrument of wonderful complexity analogous to the human brain, one cannot help thinking that a message is being transferred—some remark or observation, whose recipient might add an additional remark, or might not.

I spoke about this to my friend Tom, whose Lab, Sport, is a fine fellow indeed. In reply Tom confided to me his wish to take Sport to Paris, reasoning that if humans are awed by France's long history and antique buildings, surely Sport would be entranced by the centuries of pee on its ancient streets. Did Voltaire have a dog? Did Camus walk a bichon frise along the Left Bank during the writing of L'Etranger?

Of course it is pure human arrogance to assume that we're dealing with a kind of canine bulletin board, or "pee-mail"; such forms of communication are so bound up with language even to think in such terms seems anthropomorphic and absurd. It seems more likely that this peeing on posts business represents something more general: an ongoing assertion of the brotherhood of dog, or an endless, specieswide discussion about the nature and essence of the Universal Dog.

In any case, as the months go by I find myself irresistibly drawn into a subculture we'll call the Dominion of Dog. Recently Gus's former "owner" (still a father figure) performed some work on the house of a neighbour we'll call Sandra. Henceforth for two weeks we would drop by for a visit: jump, jump, slurp, slurp—followed by a session chasing Mr. Squeaky, a red toy which properly belonged to Smoky, the tenant.

When Smoky moved out of the apartment, Sandra persuaded his "owner" to leave Mr. Squeaky, with the result that no walk is now complete without time spent on Sandra's lawn. Squeak, squeak. This location has become a landmark in the Dominion of Dog.

Similarly when we visit the park it is for a scamper and a woof with Jake, the short-haired border collie, Chewy the three-legged shepherd, and a duck toller whose name we don't know. Gus's friends, not mine. There being squirrels (we have to spell the word around the house or Gus becomes excited), I must stand by and watch the sudden, silent sprint toward a bushy-tailed shadow halfway down the block, which darts up a tree seemingly just in time, followed by a round of woofing and what we'll call the Trunk Dance.

What might happen should Gus actually corner one, I wondered nervously, until the other day when he managed to insert himself between a squirrel and his tree, prompting the rodent to freeze in confusion. Did Gus leap upon the prey with lupine ferocity? No, he gave it a woof. What are you doing? Don't you know you're supposed to be moving? he seemed to say.

Naturally the squirrel took the hint—changed directions, reached another tree and scampered up to safety, followed by Gus, woof-woof, the trunk dance and so on. So much for the killer instinct, Gus. So much for going for the jugular. So much for a career in business.

Next month: Learning from the Dog.

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