As I swallow my last spoonful of Raisin Bran, I look Albert Camus in his one adoring eye, and then I quote him: “‘There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide.’ I’m thinking about the first question again. It’s true. To be or not to be.”
Albert Camus cocks his head to one side as if to say, “Pourquoi?”
“‘All great deeds and all great thoughts have ridiculous beginnings.’ Remember when you wrote that, Albert Camus? The Myth of Sisyphus. Remember? Before you were reincarnated as a dog? You also wrote this about the inevitable weariness we all face: ‘It happens that the stage sets collapse. Rising, streetcar, four hours in the office or the factory, meal, streetcar, four hours of work, meal, sleep, and Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday and Saturday according to the same rhythm—this path is easily followed most of the time. But one day the “why” arises and everything begins in that weariness tinged with amazement.’ Do you remember? Did you think about the first question during your fatal car crash? When the wheels skidded across the ice? When the engine wrapped around the tree? Right before you died in your last incarnation? In that last moment of your life, did you regret never having finished writing The First Man? Did you regret anything? Could you still answer the first question as you left this world?”
Albert Camus cocks his head the other way, lets out a sigh, and then rests his chin on his outstretched paws.
He pretends to be resigned, but secretly he loves it when I quote his former self—I can tell.
In his present incarnation, Albert Camus is a toy poodle with a graying Afro and beard; the rest of his coat’s as black as his eye and nose.
When I look at Albert Camus’s face I sometimes think of the late PBS painter Bob Ross, who was always painting happy little things—happy little trees, happy little mountains, happy little clouds.
The Joy of Painting, his show was called, if I remember correctly.
Was there ever a nicer, more positive person?
Bob Ross—in this wonderfully inclusive way—made us all believe we could paint. I used to watch his show and think he was perhaps the best teacher I had ever seen practicing the art of passing on knowledge.
If I remember correctly, he died of lymphoma in his early fifties, which is five years or so younger than I am right now.
“Why were you reincarnated as a dog that looks like former PBS star Bob Ross, Albert Camus?” I say, and then reach down and sink my fingers into Albert Camus’s Bob Ross Afro. I find his tiny skull within that globe of fur, give Albert Camus a good scratch behind the ears, and he blows air through his nose in appreciation. “Maybe you are here to keep me from reaching any conclusions regarding the first question, Albert Camus. Because I can’t remember the answer anymore. I used to know why I should keep living, but now—well, I have you. We have each other. And maybe someday Mrs. Harper will stop wearing black. What do you think, Albert Camus? Is that our answer?”
He looks up at me lovingly with his one eye, but he offers no reply today.
I spark up a Parliament Light and take a drag, feeling the hollow little recessed filter between my lips.
I try to pretend Albert Camus and I are in a Parisian café in the mid-1950s, smoking and discussing the absurd.
In my fantasy, I am fluent in French.
I tell Albert Camus he will be reincarnated as a dog one day—Vous serez réincarner en chien!—and be rescued from a shelter days before he is to be euthanized just because no one wants to adopt a one-eyed dog.
“Maybe when you were in that tiny cage, you were hoping to be killed so that you could move on to your next incarnation,” I say to the present-day Albert Camus. “But that was before you knew the joys of living with me, Nate Vernon, your master.”
His right eye was cauterized shut by some monster of a man whom Albert Camus cannot name, because he is now a dog and no longer has the power of speech.
When I saw him in the shelter, I knew I had to rescue him. They opened the small crate, I knelt down, and he jumped up into my arms like a fool, still trusting after the horrors that he must have endured.
“I told you he was an absolute sweetheart,” the young girl volunteering at the shelter said before she realized I was crying. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll take him,” I said. “Today. Right now. Whatever he costs, I’ll pay. I’ll sign anything.”
At first I tried to get him to wear an eye patch, just so he might have some dignity, but he wasn’t having it. He’d paw at the patch until it descended to his chin like a beard, and then he’d cock his head to one side, look up at me with his one good eye, and bark once, as if to say, “Really?”
The eye patch was a ridiculous idea.
His scarred eye socket is mostly covered by fur, when the groomer trims him properly, and he’s not a vain dog.
He’s accepted his fate in life, as we all should.
Albert Camus pretends he is no longer interested in cigarette smoke, now that he has been reincarnated as a dog, but I can tell my smoking makes him nostalgic for his days playing goalie for the University of Algiers, exploring anarchy and communism, having affairs with María Casares, getting involved with revolutions, winning the Nobel Prize even, only to end up a cripple’s dog in the next life.
“The absurdity! It’s like we’re in one of your books, Albert Camus! Or maybe more like Kafka.”
I ash my cigarette into the remaining cereal milk and then study the smoke leaving my mouth.
I don’t even inhale all that much of it, but I enjoy seeing the smoke exit my body, maybe because it reminds me that I’m really still here. Sometimes I even smoke in front of the mirror. I prefer this activity to television.