Dogs crossing the threshold of death, marveling, “It’s the notes you don’t hear.”
Dogs demanding of a silent, empty universe, “Are you better off now than you were four years ago??”
Dogs sensing the instantaneous destruction of an entire planet, its millions of voices suddenly crying out in terror before just as suddenly going silent, and recalling after a reflective, absent pause, “I felt nothing.”
Dogs stumbling down a footpath in the hills of Salzburg, ducking and swerving as bullets riddle the trees, and emerging, gasping, into a clearing, only to be cut down by a single, surprised Austrian SS officer brandishing a Walther P38, and crawling away, dying, into the forest, coughing blood and wheezing into a hand-held AM SCR-536 two-way radio, warning the underground resistance, “The hills are alive…”
Dogs pointedly not playing “The Sound of Silence” while the drowned corpse of a young Dustin Hoffman floats gently in a backyard pool in Southern California.
Dogs tearing open a trench coat and revealing the results of a life of quiet desperation to a shocked sidewalk audience.
Dogs musing that while heard melodies are sweet, those unheard are sweeter, and promptly burying you alive as part of a smiling, grand romantic gesture in a bed of poured concrete.
Dogs crying uncontrollably in the Mansions of the Silence, insisting, “I am not the man speaking.”
Dogs explaining to the unseen inhabitants of a mirror universe of antimatter, “It’s not the notes you do hear.”
Dogs screening grainy black-and-white footage of a wood chipper noiselessly receiving a stack of bodies, and observing to a bored Introduction to Film class, “And that, everyone, was the silent era.”