V
After all, perhaps the goats were not entirely wrong. Chewing is indeed a philosophy, though it depends on the material. A bone has meat and juice, a biscuit has… routine. Twice a day, every day, the same dry crunch. I eat them, of course—one should never speak ill of food that arrives with such punctuality—but sometimes I wonder if variety would not also be good for the spirit.
But an antler—ah, that is another matter. I press my jaws upon it with the full force of the universe, and it endures without flinching. This is true stoicism: to absorb every attempt at destruction, yet remain unbent. Wolves, my distant kin, may still understand this craft; the rest of the animal kingdom knows nothing of it. Grass is pastime, biscuits are routine, but antler-chewing—this is hard effort, long hours, steady persistence. It is not amusement but endurance, and endurance makes a master.
And here lies the essence: not work, but craft. Men hammer iron, weave cloth, or carve stone; I, Rolex, am master of the antler. With jaws guided by precision, I pursue this craft with devotion. No applause is expected, none is needed. The perfection lies in the doing, in the rhythm of tooth against bone, in the certainty that no challenge is too stubborn for patience.
People read of their wise men and ancient teachers. We dogs, too, have our philosophers: Gnawcritus, who taught that the purpose of a dog’s life is simple—no stick, no bone, no antler should remain unchewed. For in chewing lies the shape of existence itself: long effort, quiet mastery, and the sound of persistence echoing through the jaws of time.