On Sundays I read to dogs who have been abused, getting them used to the sound of kind human voices: It is not known that anybody who is anybody is not alone and if alone then how can the dog be there, I read Gertrude Stein to a tiny blind terrier named Peacock, and if the little dog is not there it is not alone. She barks until I stop. She does not want to hear about others like her, but the pit bulls the next kennel over don’t mind, sit quietly while I continue where I left off. The little dog is not alone because no little dog could be alone.