Shortly after moving into my new house, I opened a map app to survey my surroundings. A few blocks away, I spotted a promising geographical feature: a solid, perfect blue circle.

My logic was simple, flawless, and deeply flawed. Blue equals water. Water equals swimming. Without a second thought, I put on my swimsuit, grabbed a towel, and marched toward my newly discovered local oasis, ready to immerse myself in nature.

I arrived to find that there was, indeed, water. There was a pond. But it was not an oasis for humanity. It was a canine gladiatorial arena.

I stood at the edge of the water, watching as a dozen wet, chaotic animals hurled themselves into the mud. I briefly considered joining in, but I quickly realised that the entry requirement for this specific body of water was to sprint after a thrown stick, retrieve it in your mouth, and repeat the process 50 times in a row.

My relationship with swimming doesn’t involve fetching muddy wood. Once, someone even told me that what I do isn’t really swimming but merely staying afloat without drowning. Anyway, I have orthodontic problems, which even prevent me from biting into an apple, let alone a stick. So, I kept my clothes on and sat on a bench to watch. But a strange thing happened: I couldn't stop returning.

Although I don't own a dog, I visit the pond to sit in the corner and observe. There is a genuine, unfiltered joy that a dog experiences when encountering two feet of muddy water, pure, wild excitement. Sitting on that bench, soaking in their uninhibited happiness, became my favourite secret pastime.

That’s also where I met Nika, the dog.

Nika is a Spanish Greyhound - a Galgo. While the labradors and terriers were violently splashing in the mud, Nika possessed an ancient, quiet aristocracy. She was elegant. She was silent. We formed a quiet, respectful acquaintance over the summer, a bond built on silent observation rather than frantic fetching.

When winter came, I stopped going to the pond. I hadn't seen Nika in at least six or seven months.

That is, until yesterday. Yesterday, sitting on my bench by the water, I spotted a long, elegant silhouette approaching from the other side of the forest. It was Nika. I gasped. I leapt up from the bench. I threw social convention into the pond. "NIKA!" I shrieked across the lake, waving my arms with the desperate, unhinged enthusiasm of an obsessive fan meeting a celebrity.

Why did I completely lose my dignity when I reunited with that dog?

To understand my profound humiliation, we must look to the ancient Greek philosopher Diogenes. Diogenes founded the school of philosophy known as Cynicism. In fact, the word "Cynic" comes from the Greek word kynikos, which literally translates to "dog-like."

Diogenes believed that humans were ruined by social conventions, politeness, and artificial rules. He believed we should strive to live exactly like dogs: shameless, entirely in the present moment, and completely honest about our feelings. If a dog is happy to see you, it does not hide it behind a polite handshake; it loses its mind. Diogenes thought this was the highest form of authenticity.

Nika saw me. She paused, looked at me, and then, with the slow, regal grace of a European monarch, she trotted over. She did not jump or bark. But I was panting, practically drooling with excitement, my emotional control completely shattered, accompanied by strange bodily movements meant to be a sign of my excitement.

In that moment, I realised with absolute horror that I was the dog. I was a frenetic Golden Retriever.

Nika, on the other hand, was the civilised human. She approached me, permitted me to pet her neck, and looked at me with a profound, quiet pity. She let me love her purely out of courtesy. She endured my frantic affection because it would be impolite to walk away immediately. After exactly thirty seconds of indulging my emotional breakdown, she gave me a curt nod, turned around, and elegantly walked away.

I was left standing in the grass, emotionally exhausted, profoundly humiliated, and incredibly grateful.

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Nika possesses the polite restraint of an aristocrat; my cat possesses the terrifying authority of a border control agent.

When I returned from the pond, I slipped into my home like a teenager sneaking back from a forbidden party at 3:00 AM. I was terrified. I was smuggling contraband beneath my layers: the unmistakable, undeniable scent of Nika. I knew that if the feline detected this betrayal on my sweater, she would, without hesitation, beat me to death. I practically crawled to the bathroom, took off my traitorous garments, and shoved the evidence into the washing machine to be destroyed.

Once the trail went cold, I called her name. Nothing. I called again. No response. I am caught between two theories: either she truly doesn't recognise her own name, or she firmly believes that my vocalisations carry no legal weight. It is almost certainly the latter.

On the fifteenth attempt, I found her in the bedroom.

I stood there, breathless and dishevelled from my hurried wardrobe change, like a tired Alexander the Great coming back from a failed campaign. She, on the other hand, just awakened from a six-hour nap on a pile of my "clean-ish" laundry, didn't wag her tail, bark in greeting, or show any signs of loyalty. Instead, she sat on her cotton throne, watching my frantic movements with the unblinking disappointment of a Cynic philosopher observing a faltering king.

"Do you want anything?" I asked, my voice cracking with exhaustion. "Anything at all? A treat? A petting? A kingdom?"

I was Alexander, offering Diogenes anything his heart desired. I waited for her to ask for a scratch behind the ears, some sign that I was needed, or at least tolerated.

The silence that followed was heavy with 4th-century BC energy. She didn't move. She didn't blink. She merely adjusted her posture, scanning my neurosis as if it were a strange, unnecessary disease. Her gaze spoke volumes: “You ask what I want, Alexander? You, with your summer love with Nika? You, who fancy yourself the provider of my world? Look at me. I have the softness of this cotton pile. I have the mastery of my own sleep. I’ve achieved the very Zen you’re frantically chasing in dog parks... amongst all that muddy shite."

She turned toward the window, where a single beam of afternoon sun fought through the dust, then looked back at me. Her eyes narrowed just enough to mark me as an intruder. Her silence delivered the classic Cynic blow:

"You ask me what I want … Just stand out of my sunlight, mate"

I backed away slowly, leaving the Philosopher of the Laundry Pile to her bliss. She had already mastered the universe in the simple warmth of doing absolutely nothing.

See you next time. Leave the swimsuit at home.

Asena

RABBIT HOLE

Every week, I fall down a few rabbit holes. I gather here some insightful things (I don’t promise) I have read, watched, and discovered over the last seven days. If you’re looking for a bit of wonder, click the links below to explore more.

This atmospheric oil painting is by the Dutch master Anton Mauve, created around 1876. Mauve was a leading figure of the Hague School, a group of artists who were basically the "moody teenagers" of the 19th-century art world. They loved grey skies, realistic landscapes, and everyday life.

Before the restoration, the painting had a yellowish, antique tinge. Most people thought Mauve was just trying to capture a warm, hazy morning glow. Wrong! It turns out that was mostly just old, discoloured varnish and layers of grime. Once they stripped that away, they found Mauve’s true skill: a cool, crisp, silver-grey light that perfectly captures the North Sea breeze.

The most amusing discovery, however, was the cover-up. At some point in the painting’s history, a previous owner, clearly someone with very refined sensibilities, must have looked at those horse droppings and literally thought, “I wouldn’t hang this shite on my wall!” or more politely “Absolutely not. My guests shall not see equine digestion in my parlour!"

They actually had a restorer (or a very brave amateur) paint over the droppings to match the surrounding sand. For years, the riders trotted along a "clean" path. When the 1991 restoration removed the overpainting, the droppings reappeared in all their “glory”.

The restoration proved that Mauve wasn't just being "gross”; he actually used those dark spots of manure to ground the painting and lead the viewer's eye into the scene.

Try it yourself and follow the poop and reach the scene. I believe it works.

I came across a collection of books that make Alice in Wonderland seem like a boring tax audit. The name of this gem of madness is the Codex Seraphinianus.

I believe it was written by an alien who took a heavy dose of psychedelics, tried to write a Wikipedia entry for Earth, but forgot how physics, biology, or even "letters" work. Here are illustrations of fruit that bleeds, machines that look like mechanical orchids, and a particularly famous scene where a couple transforms into a giant crocodile during... well, let’s call it "enthusiastic snuggling."

If you’ve ever felt like the world has stopped making sense, don’t worry; Luigi Serafini proved back in 1981 that sense is overrated anyway.

You can see the whole book here:

That’s it. You’ve now officially reached the bottom. Thank you for reading. ❤️ Your reward this week is this perfectly solved feline equation with two very confused variables and an extra shipping fee.

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