Un chien andalou

Hi, my name is López, though originally my masters used to call me alternatively Poroto and Fantoche, I am a speaking dog, and professional philosopher.


Years walking on my four legs through this whitened city called Seville made me what I am: the first speaking philosopher dog in the world.

Yes, I do speak, here and on my four legs, in spite of my canine nature I dominate the English, I laugh the Portuguese, I shout the Italian, I whisper the French, and -even- I suspect the German, but this latter doesn't go beyond the mere camp of the suspicion.

I also speak in Spanish (native), I joke the Catalan and I rave the Galician, because I am an Andalusian dog but, first of all, I am a speaking dog, and I belong to the International League of Speaking Dogs, association created by me six weeks ago which, for the moment, includes my only self.

About my race, I'm not sure, though my master says that I'm a Perro Ovejo or a Cachiperro.


Maybe you are reading these lines, atónito and disbelieving, but that's not my problem, to be frank: for your own good go buy a kilo of belief, or two.

I am typing these single lines on my ''blogger'' for a posterity that, if we are lucky, will include thousands of speaking dogs that may use their reason, like I do.

Is not so hard to jump, from the canine irrationality of the ugly bark, to the svelte word, which flourishes in a canine mouth, with a long tongue dripping saliva, and idiotized gesture observing the master BUT... speaking.

No, is not hard, you dog, my brother, if there's some dog reading these lines, I'm talking to you, too
you only have to observe minutely any human talking, see how they move their jaws and make their tongue dance crazily when they pronounce sentences like "this is why we can't have nice things".

You are going to figure it out, a spark will shine suddenly in your unused canine brain, and you're going to start imitating like a Japanese (first in movement, and then in sound) the speaking of your master, result: you'll become a free dog, a philosopher, like me.

If our amos can do it, we can do it , too, dog, my brother, where's your self esteem? You have to be more assertive, punch the fucking table and say out loud: ''what's mine is mine'', y chau pinela.

The canine liberation is coming, they won't stop it, sons of Kurva (I speak Russian and Polish too).


I particularly am passionate about the pseudo Romantic literature from the 18th century, the other day, reading Jonathan Swift's "Gulliver's Travels" while swallowing a succulent plate of Spaghetti alle vongole, I started underlining a parallel between the flying island of Laputa (sorry) that Swift depicts in his puerile book, with the injust exploitation of Ireland by the England of those times, England which was ruled by a king of the Hannover dinasty, surely a cruel tyrant, and with the Whigs controlling the Parliament.

In this case scenario, Laputa (sorry again) would be England, while the enslaved Ireland, would be its client

the client of Laputa, I say.


Sorry, sorry, I don't know why I digress and say all these things, or as the master of the horror vacui José de Churriguera said: "Me fui al carajo tomando un atajo".


Because, besides philosopher and linguist, I am architect, and I am specially fond of the Churrigueresque façades, the more pompous, baroque and horrid, the better.

The other day I was repairing the front of the house (my master told me to stop, but I ignored him and continued), and my brain was suddenly illuminated by a explosion of genius -maybe by means of angel or muse-: I added a sheet of stucco color burgundy, extended over the wall in a mannerist and capricious way, and crowned my creation with impressionist brush strokes of "Fanacoa" mayonnaise and cognac.



I think that a guy called Buñuel or Buñuelo made a movie about me, but I never watched that fecal piece of artistry
have better things to do eating my Royal Canin.

At this moment I am despatarrado on my bed reading "La locura de amor" (The Madness of Love), by M. Tamayo y Baus, a passable though excessively formulaic text, and I think I'm going to send it to the trash

Have a good day.