Just for fun

My poor blog has been mostly dormant for the last few years because I’ve been in the apprenticeship program offered through CiRCE Institute. It’s a fantastic program and I highly recommend it, but it is tough—three years of reading hard books, learning to teach mimetically, and writing essays with the Lost Tools of Writing curriculum. Our last assignment was to write a Socratic dialogue, and I thought I’d share mine here, just for a change of pace.

If you’re not familiar with the format, the Socratic dialogue, it’s a little drama that consists of two characters, the Socrates figure and the Interlocutor, discussing some idea or statement, trying to come to an agreement. The Socrates character asks the Interlocutor questions to define ambiguous terms, expose false premises or logical fallacies, or to point out absurd or unjust consequences. Sometimes they come to an agreement, but not always.

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    The young woman took the roasting pan out of the oven, transferred the meat to a board, poured the stock into a jar, then set the pan on the stovetop and turned the fire up. Taking a wooden spoon in one hand, she added flour to the pan with the other, and mixed it into the roasted vegetables and fat that had been left behind. She—let us call her Hestia—took a special delight in cooking porchetta, a dish she had grown up watching and helping her mother and grandmother make, but this was her first time doing it on her own, and she didn’t want anything to go wrong.
    So studiously was she attending to her fire and food that she didn’t notice the young man enter the kitchen, the westering sun setting his mischievous face aglow, nor did she hear the old dog under the window thump its tail in pleasure as its master entered the room. The man stole up behind his bride, wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her neck, eliciting a squeal of . . . was it delight? or vexation? In either case, she lost hold of her spoon as he—we’ll call him Dionysus, shall we?—spun her about the room. At last he set her down and she recovered her spoon . . . and her dignity.

Hestia: Let me alone now. I have to finish this sauce.

Dionysus: Ooh, what is it? Alfredo?

Hestia: No, silly, it’s a gravy for the porchetta.

Dionysus: But you could put Alfredo on it—Alfredo’s the best!

Hestia: You’re funny! Alfredo’s the best on pasta, but pan-dripping gravy is the best on meat. But don’t worry. I made Fettuccini Alfredo just for you, because I know you love it. Now—mmph . . .  Stop it! I need to focus! Okay, where was I? Um, oh! Can you get the wine glasses down for me?

Dionysus: Which ones? These?

Hestia: Yes, thanks! So, have you made up your mind yet?

Dionysus: Made up my mind? About the glasses?

Hestia: No, silly. The Joneses will be here soon and we need to have an answer for them.

Dionysus: Oh, that.

Hestia: Yes, “that.” Well?

Dionysus: Well, I don’t know what you want a cat for anyway. Dogs are so much better than cats.

Hestia: Don’t be silly. Anyway it’s a kitten. It won’t be any trouble at all.

Dionysus: Don’t laugh, I’m serious. Dogs are better than cats. Here, watch this: Rex, here boy. Good boy! Sit. Lie down. Sit up. Shake hands. Good boy. Now go home. Good boy, Rex. That’ll do. See that?

Hestia: Yes.

Dionysus. Well, there you are!

Hestia: And . . . ?

Dionysus: I mean, what cat would do all that?

Hestia: What does that have to do with anything?

Dionysus: What does that—? Everything! I’m serious. Look, what will a cat do for you? It won’t look after you or comfort you, it won’t play with you, and it certainly won’t love and obey you.

Hestia: Heh. One wonders what you wanted a wife for. Mmph—stop! I’m supposed to be doing something here. My gravy! Oh, good, it didn’t burn. Hand me that jar, please. Thanks. But still, your only objection to a cat seems to be that it isn’t a dog.

Dionysus: Well, of course.

Hestia: So, basically, you’re just saying that you like dogs better than cats.

Dionysus: Well, of course—because they’re better than cats.

Hestia: But “better” at what? “Better” in what way?

Dionysus: I said all that before.

Hestia: Those were all dog things.

Dionysus: Right.

Hestia: So a dog is a better dog than a cat is.

Dionysus: Bingo!

Hestia: Honey, that’s like saying Alfredo sauce is a better Alfredo sauce than gravy is.

Dionysus: Well—no. I mean, cats are completely untrainable. And they’re selfish, and they think they’re gods.

Hestia: Wait, “completely untrainable”? What do you mean? Cats are so easy to train they don’t even need to be housebroken—they’re practically born knowing how to use a litter box.

Dionysus: No, no, I mean you can’t teach them anything. Have you ever seen a cat fetch and carry, or play Frisbee?

Hestia: Of course not. But that isn’t what cats are for.

Dionysus: You’re right. It isn’t what cats are for. Cats, my dear, are for shredding furniture, napping on your keyboard when you need to use the computer, and killing birds.

Hestia: I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.

Dionysus: I am being serious.

Hestia: Okay. What if I can give a serious answer to your objections?

Dionysus: Go for it.

Hestia: It really is possible to train a cat not to shred furniture. My grandmother’s cats never do that. And if you need to use the computer while a cat is napping on the keyboard, you can just move it out of the way—there’s no law says you can’t disturb a napping cat. And as for killing birds . . . . Well, that one’s more difficult, but I could get her a collar with a bell on it for when she’s out of doors.

Dionysus: Okay, but what about the other things?

Hestia: Selfish? Think they’re gods?

Dionysus: Yes.

Hestia: I don’t think they’re selfish. They are independent and they’re certainly more cool and aloof than dogs. I think dogs are more extroverted and cats are more introverted, and that’s not a bad thing. Actually, I know a certain couple like that who are very much in love with one another.

Dionysus: Huh.

Hestia: “They think they’re gods,” though. I’ve heard other people say that too, but I don’t really know what y’all mean by it.

Dionysus: They think they’re the center of the universe. They think they own you and you only exist to please them. If they’re ever nice to you, it’s just so they can get whatever they want out of you.

Hestia: How do you know that’s what they’re thinking?

Dionysus: Well, you can just tell.

Hestia: Oh?

Dionysus: Sure. I mean, you only exist to them if they want something out of you. If you call them or want to hold them or play with them and it’s not their idea first, then they ignore you. Or claw you.

Hestia: So, kind of like when I’m in the middle of making gravy and you think it’s a good time for hugs and kisses?

Dionysus: Um . . .

Hestia: I dunno, hon, it sounds to me like you want them to treat you like their Lord and Master, which dogs are certainly good at doing.

Dionysus: Well . . .

Hestia: Or maybe you want them to be your therapist. Dogs are pretty good at that, too. But cats just aren’t like that. They’re regal and elegant, and they aren’t emotionally needy. A good relationship with a cat has to be built on mutual respect. If that’s what you mean by “thinking they’re gods,” then—

Dionysus: Shut up and kiss me, woman.

Hestia: Mmph—Is that the door?

Dionysus: No, it isn’t the door.

Hestia: Yes, it is. Here, you take the wine glasses while I go to the door. And do you have an answer for them yet?

Dionysus: We’ll see.