It’s the finals finale here at Swarthmore. Swatties are coping in their usual ways: reading excessive amounts of Foucault, viewing nonsensical YouTube videos, pretending coffee is water, and memorizing Bio bonds. Even so, the faculty nurtures us with spoonfuls of down-right adorableness. Seriously, I think the qualifications for teaching at Swarthmore are earning a Ph.D. in something extraordinary, writing a zillion publications, and being awarded the Nobel Prize in Cuteness. Yes, these folks are cute to the Nth degree.
Sadly, my pooch does not recite Paradise Lost.
For instance, I’m really looking forward to the “Pet Parlor Party.” Essentially, professors and deans bring their dogs to campus for the afternoon so students can cuddle up with a collie and forget chemistry exists.
At first, I imagined my black lab at home would love an opportunity to have a multiplicity of student hands petting her and whispering sweet-nothings in her floppy ears. She’s social and sweet and has always wanted to meet Dr. Doolittle, but I don’t know if she’d fit in with these professor pups. After all, she didn’t grow up eavesdropping on as much Proust as these pals probably did. While my lab was chewing bones, I bet these guys were gnawing on old copies of Kierkegaard. While she was curled up in her PetCo bed, the humanities huskies were snoozing on oriental rugs. As far as I know, she believes in doggie heaven. A philosopher’s poodle probably has more of postmodern perspective…
Swarthmore Rapport 