Do dogs understand anarchist theory?

Sometimes I think I’m ready. But in reality, I’m horribly unready, especially at 5pm. The golden dusk is my favorite hour; anything looks beautiful under the mellow sunset light. I gaze at the sun though a sandwich bag steamed by my dog's waste; it shimmers mysteriously in the orange glow. The problem is that many people love the golden hour as much as I do. While I enjoy the sunset through the bag, I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder. Silla. Sweating heavily as usual, which I find kinda cute. She is a generous hugger; when she leans against me, it feels like a warm, humid jungle filled with carnivorous plants.

What is your body temperature? I ask. She doesn’t seem to hear my question. 

I know Silla from the dog park community. “The Suicide Pack”, that’s what they called their whatsapp group. These people are socialists, even though they might not realize it, and most likely be offended by being identified this way. When my dog had her leg broken after being attacked by three other dogs, they brought me a brand new stroller, and spent three hours attempting to put it together despite Chinese instructions and missing parts. I never really used it, but it's the thought that counts. 

Silla is wearing purple corduroy pants that stop uncomfortably above her ankles, revealing long violet socks with pikachu on them. “This is Pumpkin” — she presents an old bull terrier with a mosaic of warts scattered across his fat thighs. The animal breathes heavily, forming a well-balanced counterpart to the heavily perspiring Silla — like an expanded cinema in creatures. Expanded co-existing.

As I watch Pumpkin take a big load near a lavender bush in silence, my dog starts barking at a pack of aggressive chihuahuas, headed by a small, toothless lady in a t-shirt that says 'California knows how to party.’

"She no longer sees you as the leader because you couldn't protect her from that attack. That's why she barks," Silla says, mercilessly spitting the words into my face. She seems to be disappointed in me;  her forehead creases deeply, giving her a resemblance to a grumpy cartoon character. "Your dog feels she has to take the lead to protect both of you now."

I respond that I don't mind my dog being the leader if it makes her feel good about herself. Silla insists that I should be the leader, because we all need leaders. I'm not sure if I do, but maybe I just haven't thought about it long enough. Being a leader sounds like a bummer to me.

"Would you rather be led?" Silla's expression turns harsh.I hadn't anticipated that my words would trigger so much annoyance. Curious to see if her cosmovision only offers these two options, I reply: "Not a leader, nor being led, but a mysterious third thing.” She seems to suddenly have a strong dislike for me.

“Like what?” — “Like direct democracy. Voluntary association, self-organization, mutual aid — these kinds of things,” I answer, just to see what will come next. 

The corners of Silla's jowls turn white from thick saliva. She pants heavily and suddenly starts barking. She opens her mouth so wide I can see a large papilloma growing on her tongue, like a ripe cauliflower. "Bow wow woof woof guau guau!" She thinks I'm mocking her. She's filled with rage and seems to be ready to attack me. 

My dog stops barking. She gazes at Silla with her round brown eyes. Perhaps she understands what Silla is saying. Maybe it was me who was wrong after all. Sometimes I think I'm prepared, but in reality, I'm terribly unprepared, especially at 5 pm.