7 Rules of the City

★ The Notes of a Newcomer

Yesterday, I took a dump under an old oak tree in the middle of the City. This is the kind of life I lead now. How did I get here? Let’s rewind to the (very) beginning.

I was born in what they call Saxony. Big family: two brothers, one sister. Desperately extroverted, all three of them. Especially the boys. They always got the warm spot first. Assholes, really. Although sweet. Sweet at heart.

The day my Big One appeared, they were all up in his face—his weird, giant face with absolutely no fur where fur is supposed to be. I wasn’t going to push. I thought maybe if you wait, something comes to you. It did. The Big One made his way toward me.

He smelled like cherries, and wet concrete. He proceeded to pick me up. He proceeded to choose me. I didn’t realize that being chosen meant agreeing to forget everything I knew about being alive. That seems like the kind of thing someone should mention upfront.

Our journey from Saxony was a complete disaster. Warm, cold, then warm again. Metal smell. Panic smell. Strange motion with no visible cause. I did not enjoy it whatsoever, but I was brave. I threw up at least twice. The Big One made a clicking sound with his mouth that I now recognize as the “something has gone wrong but we’re continuing anyway” sound. He uses it often.

By nightfall, we arrived in the City. The City is loud and confusing. There are doors, stairs, bicycles, bags, cords, shoes, and rules. Thousands of rules. Possibly millions. Here are the ones I’ve managed to confirm so far.

Rule 1: Leash Gets You Places

The leash is what ties my neck to the Big One’s hand. At first, I assumed it was for me. I was wrong. It’s for him. The Big One clings to the leash because it’s the only thing reminding him that he is currently on Earth. Without it, he would float like a sad balloon, drifting away until he became nothing more than a speck of black cashmere against the grey clouds. He is my constraint on reality. I am his line to it.

Rule 2: Phones Are Substitute Leashes

The City is full of Big Ones who have no Small Ones to anchor them. I feel for such creatures. They walk very fast and arrive nowhere in particular. In place of leashes, they carry small, glowing rectangles called “phones.” Phones show them other Big Ones who aren’t there. This arrangement appears unsatisfying, but they persist. It’s the only viable alternative.

Rule 3: Places Make No Sense

Some places, I am allowed. Some places, I am not allowed. The logic of this is a puzzle I have stopped trying to solve. There’s a food-smell place with tables outside; I may sit under them. There’s a food-smell place with tables inside—the same tables, I checked—and I may not. The distinction is extremely important to the Big Ones. They enforce it with great confidence. Confidence, I have observed, is one of their favorite substitutes for comprehension.

Rule 4: Poop Is Shameful

I poop. It is natural. It is what happens when you eat food, which everyone agrees you should do. Every time I poop, however, my Big One must make a face. The face says: This is the most disgusting thing that has ever happened, and also it happens daily. Right after comes the real perversion: He reaches into his pocket, produces a thin bag, and picks up the warmth I have discarded. This, apparently, is the civilized response. And I’m the one who’s supposed to be ashamed? I suspect the Big One is simply jealous. I know for a fact my body is working; he has no idea if his is.

Rule 5: Fur Is Removable

Every morning, Big Ones must put on different furs. My Big One does this too. It takes him at least twenty minutes to decide which. On certain days, he forces me into furs as well. The problem is: I already have fur. Everyone can see this. It’s attached to me. Still, he insists on layering additional fur on top. He has an entire room dedicated to these extra furs. Rows of them. This is baffling. I have considered offering him my fur. It is consistent. It requires no deliberation. But I suspect consistency is exactly what he’s trying to avoid.

Rule 6: Doors Lie

A door is a thing that separates inside from outside. The most disturbing Big One invention. To the best of my knowledge, when a door closes, my Big One does not cease to exist. I can often smell him on the other side. He is there. And yet I cannot access him. The world remains divided for no good reason. Then, a few moments later, the door opens, and reality resumes. Everyone behaves as though this is normal. Here’s what I think is happening: Big Ones are so afraid of disappearance, they self-administer it in a controlled environment, with a door they can open whenever they want. It’s how they train for death.

Rule 7: Questions Are Answers

“Who’s a good boy?” My Big One asks me this seventeen times a day. He knows the answer. The answer is me. I’m the good boy. We’ve established this. It’s been established since the day he chose me in Saxony. But he keeps asking. “Did you miss me?” Well, is the sun hot? “Want a treat?” Yes, yes, yes. The answer’s always yes. But he insists on asking. At first I thought that he was confused. That maybe Big Ones have poor memory. But then I realized: They don’t ask questions to get information. Information is too heavy for them. They ask questions to hear the sound of their own hope. The question is just a placeholder for the answer they know to be true.

Recently, a Big One told my Big One that I am “very well-behaved.” This is a misunderstanding. I am not well-behaved; I have simply surrendered. The exact difference between “correct” and “incorrect” remains somewhat of a mystery to me. Sometimes I think the Big Ones don’t fully know it either.

Yesterday, under the oak tree, I did what needed to be done. The Big One sighed and produced the bag. I couldn’t bring myself to judge him. If one thing’s for certain, it’s that he needs me—to smell what he’s forgotten how to smell, to feel the warmth of life, if only through a layer of plastic.

“Good boy,” he sighed, and clicked his mouth. I stood up and wagged my tail. For a moment, it wasn’t clear which one of us was obeying whom. Domestication, as it turns out, goes both ways.

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★ Follow Babe

My Big One says you must follow me on Instagram now. The link is below. I don’t make the rules…

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