The Water Lilies, Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal, and Rediscovery

Often on my way to work I see my neighbor, Maximilian Odon Von Woods, swathed in bandages, walking his well-bred German Shepherd dog called Racine. Some days the dog is nimbly disguised with a beard, wears sunglasses, or sings in an American-born Greek soprano voice - ranging from high soprano to mezzo - with an occasional woof thrown in for good measure. Today, it sounds like Gilda from "Rigoletto," or feline distemper, which must be worrying, especially for the dog.

'They're trying to kill me!' cried Maximilian.

'Who?' I said feinting surprise.

'Damn tree surgeons, shady doctors, water lilies ... They say I'm taking too long too die .... Do I look like someone who wishes too die?!'

'No ... ?'

'They've a bloody nerve ... Take it from me, if you are ill do not go to a doctor, do not tell a soul .... There's a plot to rid the world of the likes of you and me. They want to bump us off.'

He laughed hysterically, then continued in a loud voice so the neighbours could hear. 'Doesn't anyone care?! The white coats make a living out of killing us! Sly little devils!'

I blushed, and didn't know what to say. His eccentric eyebrows appeared to exchange places, and speak in unison, 'There's no cure for loneliness or old age.'

'SLY LITTLE DEVILS!' His voice shook me. 'Thank God, I've still got my dog. Listen to that voice ...' The dog and I looked at each other with sadness, our eyes half-blinded by the morning light.

The dog indeed sang with haunting passion and depth of feeling. He looked tired and old; barely able to crawl by his master's side. Racine was still an amazing singer with a large vocal range; effortlessly moving from the lowest note to the highest. Such stunning talent seems a miracle. Then so does a dog that sings.

Several readers have inquired about the illustrious Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Little is known about him. He used to be called John Dodd and shortened his name to Wilkelfield Finkelfukal in 1856 when he was 32. He spoke several languages simultaneously. This is probably why no-one understood a word he said.

He wrote a one page book titled The Wisdom of Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Unfortunately, it was written in white ink and no-one could read it. Two copies were sold to a blind woman before it was recalled by the publisher. After this disaster his volcanic imagination deserted him and he became a tree in 1866. On 12 March 1875 he shot himself in the trunk. He tired of death and moved to Manhattan in 2004 where he runs a GP surgery when he's not walking.

Reflections: To live in nature - not with nature - is what I crave. To drift on the river and escape the dangers of conformity, greed, respectability, silence. To reenter my vagabond life, jettison hypocrisy, and remove the knife that pierces my soul. Time to improvise, vire from the shooting script, and rediscover myself.

Are we condemned to be free only when we forget about our own life?