Respect to my American colleagues. The first day I arrived to work, I was asked to read out Polish poetry, so they can hear it in its native tongue. I perspired. Have you heard of Szymborka? She won a Noble prize; not that we care about these things, right, and not that I really remembered her much from my few years of Polish school. But now it matters, and this is why. Have a go, thought you would like it.

“Monologue of a Dog”

There are dogs and dogs.
I was among the chosen.
I had good papers and wolf’s blood in my veins.
I lived upon the heights inhaling the odors of views: meadows in sunlight, spruces after rain, and clumps of earth beneath the snow.

I had a decent home and people on call,
I was fed, washed, groomed, and taken for lovely strolls.
Respectfully, though, and comme il faut.
They all knew full well whose dog I was.

Any lousy mutt can have a master.
Take care, though — beware comparisons.
My master was a breed apart.
He had a splendid herd that trailed his every step and fixed its eyes on him in fearful awe.

For me they always had smiles, with envy poorly hidden.
Since only I had the right to greet him with nimble leaps, only I could say good-bye by worrying his trousers with my teeth.
Only I was permitted to receive scratching and stroking with my head laid in his lap.
Only I could feign sleep while he bent over me to whisper something.

He raged at others often, loudly.
He snarled, barked, raced from wall to wall.
I suspect he liked only me and nobody else, ever.

I also had responsibilities: waiting, trusting.
Since he would turn up briefly, and then vanish.
What kept him down there in the lowlands, I don’t know.
I guessed, though, it must be pressing business, at least as pressing as my battle with the cats and everything that moves for no good reason.

There’s fate and fate.
Mine changed abruptly.
One spring came and he wasn’t there.
All hell broke loose at home.
Suitcases, chests, trunks crammed into cars.
The wheels squealed tearing downhill and fell silent round the bend.

On the terrace scraps and tatters flamed, yellow shirts, armbands with black emblems and lots and lots of battered cartons with little banners tumbling out.
I tossed and turned in this whirlwind, more amazed than peeved.
I felt unfriendly glances on my fur.
As if I were a dog without a master, some pushy stray chased downstairs with a broom.

Someone tore my silver-trimmed collar off, someone kicked my bowl, empty for days.
Then someone else, driving away, leaned out from the car and shot me twice.

He couldn’t even shoot straight, since I died for a long time, in pain, to the buzz of impertinent flies.
I, the dog of my master.