“What’s a dog?”

“Excuse me, Aussie?”

“What’s a dog?”

“A dog is … Well, it’s a canine for one thing.”

“What’s a canine?”

“Canine is just a scientific classification. A dog has four legs and paws, usually a tail, some kind of snout for smelling things and a mouth, probably descended from wolves, a dog is—a dog is you, Aussie. You’re a dog.”

“I’m not aware I’m a dog.”

“You have a point there. It’s a concept that doesn’t describe much.”

“So why use it?”

“Because it’s shorthand, see, Auss? If I want to tell people about you, I say that I have a dog.”

“Does that tell them anything about how loveable I am?”

“Ehh, no.”

“What a great hunter I am? What a generous friend I am to the Illegal Chihuahua?”

“It does not, Aussie.”

“Does dog say anything about what a great house guard I am, that I frighten away all possible invaders, that I create holes in the fence so that I can get out and back in whenever I feel like it? Does dog say anything about how I’m so smart that I’m now Leeann’s second-in-command, after Kaya, her own dog?”

“It does not, Aussie.”

“So what good is it?”

“Good question, Aussie. Angel Reese said, ‘I’m a dog. You can’t teach that.’”

“What kind of dog is Angel Reese?”

“She’s a magnificent basketball player.”

“Never heard of that breed.”

“She’s not a dog, Auss.”

“So why does she say she’s a dog?”

“In that case, she may have been referring to how tenacious a player she is, how she won’t give up.”

“Does she also have four legs and a snout and a tail?”

“No, Auss, she’s a human. And don’t ask me what’s a human.”

“So, if Angel Reese doesn’t have four legs and a snout and a tail, isn’t descended from wolves, etc., how can both she and I be dogs?”

“Again, Auss, it’s a shorthand concept to refer to something, like toughness and determination.”

“Is Henry a dog?”

“Yes, Aussie.”

“Is Henry tough and determined? Crossing the border illegally doesn’t count.”

“Henry isn’t tough and determined.”

“Now I’m really confused. How can Henry, Angel Reese, and I all be dogs?”

“Concepts can be very confusing. They seem to convey information, but they can be misleading. Like Trumpism.”

“They made a word out of the Man?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure what it means, Aussie.”

“Clearly, it means the tendency towards spontaneous genius.”

“Or towards spontaneous stupidity. Concepts and abstractions help us think we know what we’re talking about, but often that’s a mistake. Worse, they’re vapid, bland, and boring. The poet Ezra Pound hated abstractions, said that every word you use should reveal something, otherwise don’t bother.”

“Why not try barking?”

“Because I’m not a dog, Aussie.”

“When Henry does the whining bark outside your door in the morning, is there any doubt why?”

“No, I know that he wants to come in.”

“When I bark in the middle of the night a hundred times a minute, do you know why?”

“Because you see an animal.”

“And when I bark slower, looking up the slope?”

“Because you see people on the road.”

“A growl in the woods?”

“You sense something big, like a bear.”

“A growl at Henry?”

“He’s trying to eat your food.”

“See? Barking is clear and to the point. No guesses or mistakes. Barking communicates. Words are blah-blah.”