The canal

On a mound beside a canal, a man sat with his dog, with whom he engaged in curious conversation.

"The meaning of life," he said, and left it at that. A boat floated by. The man continued. "Suppose there is one and someone finds it." The dog listened, probably, its still form standing attention to the small waves in the water. "Who will it be?" The man took a puff from his cigar. One he'd found. "It could be us," he nudged the dog, "could be one o' them philosophers. Or a monk." The dog chose not to respond. "Could be a politician." The man analysed the cigar. "But, that's supposing." The dog let out a whimper. "Suppose there isn't," the man said, handing the dog a piece of bread, "a meaning to life, that is." Another boat floated by. "What happens to all o' them? The thinkers? The believers?" The man continued to look out onto the water. So did the dog. "If they find out there is no meaning, there'd be nothing to look for." The dog remained silent. Perhaps, in thought. "You and me are lucky," he said, "we ain't like them thinkers. We do other things." They sat, watching another boat go by. "Hmm," he sighed, "yep."