1

      A WAGER

      One evening in Toronto, the gods Apollo and Hermes were at the Wheat Sheaf Tavern. Apollo had allowed his beard to grow until it reached his clavicle. Hermes, more fastidious, was clean-shaven, but his clothes were distinctly terrestrial: black jeans, a black leather jacket, a blue shirt.

      They had been drinking, but it wasn’t the alcohol that intoxicated them. It was the worship their presence elicited. The Wheat Sheaf felt like a temple, and the gods were gratified. In the men’s washroom, Apollo allowed parts of himself to be touched by an older man in a business suit. This pleasure, more intense than any the man had known or would ever know again, cost him eight years of his life.

      While at the tavern, the gods began a desultory conversation about the nature of humanity. For amusement, they spoke ancient Greek, and Apollo argued that, as creatures go, humans were neither better nor worse than any other, neither better nor worse than fleas or elephants, say. Humans, said Apollo, have no special merit, though they think themselves superior. Hermes took the opposing view, ­arguing that, for one thing, the human way of creating and using symbols, is more interesting than, say, the complex dancing done by bees.

      – Human languages are too vague, said Apollo.

      – That may be, said Hermes, but it makes humans more amusing. Just listen to these people. You’d swear they understood each other, though not one of them has any idea what their words actually mean to another. How can you resist such farce?

      – I didn’t say they weren’t amusing, answered Apollo. But frogs and flies are amusing, too.

      – If you’re going to compare humans to flies, we’ll get nowhere. And you know it.

      In perfect though divinely accented English – that is, in an English that every patron at the tavern heard in his or her own accent – Apollo said

      – Who’ll pay for our drinks?

      – I will, said a poor student. Please, let me.

      Apollo put a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

      – My brother and I are grateful, he said. We’ve had five Sleemans each, so you’ll not know hunger or want for ten years.

      The student knelt to kiss Apollo’s hand and, when the gods had gone, discovered hundreds of dollars in his pockets. In fact, for as long as he had the pants he was wearing that evening, he had more money in his pockets than he could spend, and it was ten years to the instant before their corduroy rotted to irrecoverable shreds.

      Outside the tavern, the gods walked west along King Street.

      – I wonder, said Hermes, what it would be like if animals had human intelligence.

      – I wonder if they’d be as unhappy as humans, Apollo answered.

      – Some humans are unhappy; others aren’t. Their intelligence is a difficult gift.

      – I’ll wager a year’s servitude, said Apollo, that animals – any animal you choose – would be even more unhappy than humans are, if they had human intelligence.

      – An earth year? I’ll take that bet, said Hermes, but on condition that if, at the end of its life, even one of the creatures is happy, I win.

      – But that’s a matter of chance, said Apollo. The best lives sometimes end badly and the worst sometimes end well.

      – True, said Hermes, but you can’t know what a life has been until it is over.

      – Are we speaking of happy beings or happy lives? No, never mind. Either way, I accept your terms. Human intelligence is not a gift. It’s an occasionally useful plague. What animals do you choose?

      As it happened, the gods were not far from the veterinary clinic at Shaw. Entering the place unseen and imperceptible, they found dogs, mostly: pets left overnight by their owners for one reason or another. So, dogs it was.

      – Shall I leave them their memories? asked Apollo.

      – Yes, said Hermes.

      With that, the god of light granted ‘human intelligence’ to the fifteen dogs who were in the kennel at the back of the clinic.

      +

      Somewhere around midnight, Rosie, a German shepherd, stopped as