The dog's not a very smart creature, I'll have you know. She walks around with little to no grace and forever will look on with bewilderment. What she lacks is knowing. She never tries to replace her sense of wonderment with intelligence. What used to be admired as innocence turns to dumb simplicity, and there is no respect in that. There are few things that she understands, with the exception of representation. Words spoken to her in harsh tones means she has done wrong. But the very same words sung with sugar, and it means that she could do no harm. She does not know the difference.

I had a dog for a long time. I would walk her down the street and pass people by, the words falling off of their tongues like silver coins out of a glass jar. "What a beautiful dog," they would say, or, "Who's walking who, huh?" I would smile, they would smile, we all would smile, and then I'd go on my way. And I suppose it was true. She was a beautiful girl, with light brown and white patches, verging on a reddish-orange coat. And then there were freckles, which gave her any hint of human-like quality. The freckles were on her nose, dancing around like little tribal people, and they multiplied in the sun, much like mine would. People tell me that this is an impossible feat, but I swear it to you. There would be no point in telling you if it wasn't true.

Her name was Hope. She was an Akita, the same breed of dogs that come from Japan. The Japanese, as I'm told, used to keep them as babysitters. The trusting parents would leave the dog with the little ones, knowing that she would never let any stranger in the house. And such has been the relationship with man and dog, a mutual understanding. At first glance, it is a beautiful thing. Two very different animals, finding a common bond, and therein lies love.

She and I were walking on the beach one time, about midday, when every able body has brought themselves out of bed to appreciate the sunlight. I saw a few ungrateful ones through their windows, their eyes glazed over the same way one's eyes glaze after surgery or a blow to the head. I knew someone like that. His sensitivity to the sun made me sad for him. He would blink in the light with unfamiliarity, like a foreign object had just lodged itself into his eye. He couldn't read a book in the sun; the reflection was too strong for his sight. He only knew of the bright glare of the television, the computer, and anything else artificial. I didn't reprimand him for his unhealthy ways. Only shook my head in pity. I felt bad for him.

The sand on that beach was of the kind that squeaked. For those of you who have not experienced this phenomenon, I promise you this: if you never considered yourself a person easily entertained, squeaky sand will break you of your stone-faced personality. Dragging your heels on said sand will create the noise, and once achieved, it's impossible to do it just once. You will drag your left heel, followed by your right, and then your left again, until you create an orchestra of sound using only the feet and sand. While I'm doing this, to onlookers, I'm sure I look like I've lost my mind. But once attempted, you realize you're not crazy at all.

Hope was on a long leash, about ten feet. "Gives the dog a sense of freedom," my dad had assured me. I had no reason to doubt it. She was happy, panting and trotting, smelling the seaweed, and my tugging at her neck would prevent her from rolling in said seaweed.

I don't have to tell you that I wasn't the only one who had decided to bring my dog onto the beach to enjoy the day. Many people passed by, purple, green, and red leashes in their hands, wrapped around their wrists, their steps impatient, trudging along as the dogs would push their wet noses into the ground, sniffing feverishly as if their lives depended on it. And then they would pass away from where their snouts once wandered, as if it hadn't mattered in the first place. Such is the simplicity of dogs.

Not all owners keep their dogs on a leash. No, some find the rope and collar too constructing, and unnatural of the dog's nature. And as I looked off into the part of the beach that curved into a rounded pool, I saw a man with a visor, white and pastey. He was far off, however; closer to me was the Corgey dog that preceeded him, in short, fast strides. I don't know if this dog was male or female, but its walk spoke of unmistakenable pride, pomp and circumstance. He approached me and smelled my left leg pant.

"Oh, don't worry," said the ghostly man, who had jogged up to my side when he saw my encounter with his short legged friend. "He's very friendly."

"I'm sure," I told him, and held my hand out to its face. "Hello, there." I rubbed his head, the same way someone rubs dust off an old lamp found in the attic. In response, he nibbled on my hand. Gently, though - if there is such an adjective for such a gesture. It didn't hurt me or even scratch. It was the playful bite of puppies, the ones with needle-like teeth, but whose harmless crime you overlook.

Hope didn't seem to share my opinion. She lunged upon the animal. The Corgey was so low to the ground in the first place, it didn't stand a chance. She had caught a hold of its fur near the head, and shook hard, and the small dog responded like a Raggety Ann doll. Hope was trying to break the little thing's neck.

This whole time I was tugging at Hope's collar, desperately trying to deterr her grip. The man, having no lead to pull, watched in horror, his hands on his head, cupping his visor. Hope pushed the Corgey toward the sand with her mouth, which could have been conceived as a burial attempt.

Akitas are strong dogs. Once, on a chase for a squirrel, my mother had been dragged by Hope on her stomach clear across the yard, with no mercy. Hope was convinced that this dog had done me wrong and now must pay.

I cannot describe to you in further detail the disgust in which you would view your own dog trying to kill another dog. It was in those terrifying moments that I had no words; words do not do the abhorrence justice. In one final, brutal tug, I pulled Hope away from the dog with every bit of strength I had within me. It didn't matter. The deed was done. The Corgey lay dead on the sand. And between me and the man right there, there was silence.

I don't need to explain to you further, then, the stupidity of dogs. Hope tried to save me and in doing so, killed another dog. To a dog, the fault of killing one dog is equivalent to its master being shamed by an innocent puppy bite. An eye for an eye, that is what she believed. But it was wrong. For it is, without question, the ultimate foolishness to wish to sustain the life of a human. For beyond a dog, we are the most unintelligent of creatures.

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