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The greatest short story writer of all time (Amy Hempel) once said that “…the smart dog obeys, but the smarter dog knows when to disobey.”

As a dumb, greased, durable cog in the machine of American capitalist-consumerism, and frequent hirer-of-people, I am most specifically searching, and mostly failing, to find workers of an increasingly rarefied ilk: a subtype of employee among which I’ve often classified myself, that I call the intelligent dog. You will see though how my intelligent dog bears more in common with Amy Hempel’s smart dog, and less with her smarter dog.

Because the intelligent dog is just smart enough to achieve full autonomy. An intelligent dog does not require direction or assistance. And so the intelligent dog must be smart enough to have a macroscopic understanding of the work, must have enough future sight to map work flows in their mind. Must make intuitive, correct decisions and quickly. All of which prereqs a little computing power.

However, the intelligent dog is not smart enough to know when to disobey, or doesn’t really find an occasion or desire to, anyway. In fact, this is another key component of the intelligent dog: all it really desires are the work ‘attaboys’ pursuant to one doing a good job. It’s important to that this is a one-dimensional desire, and abstract. The intelligent dog has no interest in raises, bonuses, team outings, e.g. He subsists on the invisible, internal, goldenglow feeling of company kudos, spoken aloud or even, minimally, assumed; he craves the feeling like heroin No. 4.

What of the ‘dog’ part of the intelligent dog? Arguably the more important component. The intelligent dog is not conscious of his own debasement. Or, the intelligent dog is conscious of his own debasement and is able to wholly and permanently compartmentalize the feeling of debasement. There is no job too small, low, dark, dirty, dangerous, odd-smelling, germy or humiliating for the intelligent dog. And the intelligent dog must have a short memory. No matter how many times he is burned, figuratively mostly but at times literally, he will arrive at the foot of his master (which is, in essentia, the ‘job’), tongue joggling from smiling mouth, tail animated to a blur.

Really, the intelligent dog does require one last thing. A spiritual emptiness, a constitutional deadness, a having-been-broken by the rigors of a long career. He’s intelligent, after all, so he cannot truly be unaware of the indignities he suffers.

No, he knows but must not care.

So we’ll end here with the intelligent dog’s sole refrain: “Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do and die.”