To Pavlov’s Dog

Every morning is cold in St. Petersburg, but still he arrives early. You hear the door to the lab unlocking and you know who it is. You could smell him coming down the hall. He has nothing for you and you don’t even lift your head. You don’t know this breaks his heart. He rubs behind your ear and you stretch out and barely, just barely, open your eyes. He wants you to love him. You are waiting for someone else.

Pavlov has left his wife at home, again. He does this every day, but today, he should have stayed. Three days ago they buried their first son and she has not left the bed. He feels helpless. Forgotten. She is more beautiful than ever, he thinks, but he has thought that every day since their wedding. He grieves his son’s death by doing a lot. He writes down ideas for experiments all night. He goes for long walks. For him, the pain is dulled by the distraction. She is letting it burn itself out and she will be the wick at its core.

You sense Ivan is different, but not enough. Every day he is empty handed. But you know what is coming and in a few minutes, you hear the other footsteps, the assistant, heading towards the lab. You sit up. You hear the door open; your turn your ears up. Your mouth waters. My love! You can hardly contain yourself.

Pavlov notices, of course, He notices everything. He will win the Nobel Prize for his powers of observation. The boy was sick, but it took days before they realized it. His eyes were a little glassy. His breath a little hot, but they never thought about it. The doctor told them there was nothing they could do, nothing they could have done. Pavlov hears that but doubts it. Always something, there must always be something to do.

Ivan Pavlov

In the lab that morning, patience stretches thin, translucent, between you and the assistant, between the assistant and Pavlov, between Pavlov and you. Like looking through a microscope, each focusing so intently on one thing. The assistant is looking at Pavlov’s ears, how every few seconds they pull back as if he is clenching his jaw. You are watching the assistant’s hands, all the same motions he does every day before he comes to you with a small nibble of dried chicken.

Pavlov is watching your mouth. You’re licking your lips like you know what’s coming. He can see your anticipation. We love the predictable. We crave it. We see it coming and we cannot help but respond. I remember that feeling, he thinks. I remember that.