When the Dog Barked and the Man Spoke
- Madhukar Dama
- Apr 17
- 2 min read
Setting: A late evening in a quiet village. A small tea shop by the roadside. An old dog, scruffy but wise, lies near the bench. A man in his 40s, overdressed and overthinking, sips chai while ranting into his phone. The dog watches.
---
Man (on phone): Yeah bro, I told him I’m not taking that deal unless the proposal is routed through proper channels. I mean, come on!
Dog (murmuring): There it begins. A sentence with no ending.
Man: I’ve been in this game for 20 years. They don’t know who they’re dealing with.
Dog: And yet, you bark more than I ever have.
Man (startled): Wait… you can talk?
Dog: Only when it matters. Unlike you.
Man: That’s rude.
Dog: So is wasting words to avoid listening.
Man: I’m just expressing myself!
Dog: Then why do you repeat yourself so much? And lie? And perform?
Man: I’m a human. Language is our gift.
Dog: Correction: It was your gift. Now it’s your addiction.
Man: What do you mean?
Dog: When I bark, it’s clear. There’s danger. Hunger. Joy. Protection. That’s it. When you talk, it’s fog. It fills every silence that could’ve saved you.
Man (quietly): But talking helps us connect… doesn’t it?
Dog: Then why are you lonelier than ever? You talk to thousands. But you hear no one.
Man: But what else do I do?
Dog: Try barking.
Man: What?
Dog: Let your emotions out without justifying them. Growl when you're angry. Wag when you’re happy. Stay silent when you have nothing true to say.
Man: You really think that’s better than human speech?
Dog: I think a bark meant something once. And a poem still does. But your average conversation? It’s a landfill with vowels.
Man (sips chai, thoughtful): Maybe that’s why I’m tired even after doing nothing.
Dog: Because you've said too much, to everyone, including yourself.
---
The phone screen dims.
The man puts it away.
And for the first time that evening,
he just sips, and listens.
In the distance, another dog barks. Once.
Then silence.
---
“The Dog Was Right”
— after Charles Bukowski
they call it conversation,
but it’s really
a desperate cough
from a drowning man
who forgot what silence feels like.
the dog barked once,
clear and clean,
then lay down.
the man
kept explaining
his salary, his ex, his diet,
his opinions on war,
his third startup that never started.
he talked like a leaking pipe.
he smiled like a hostage.
he thought truth was
something to decorate,
not live.
and the dog—
he just listened,
like the universe does,
when it knows
you’ll eventually shut up.
