Watermelon by Nasim Vahabi Translated by Parisa Saranj 

No one believes I could be so wise. It’s not that difficult because, like all my kind, I can smell situations. A dog’s responsibility is to mind the house and its owner, to sniff and stay alert, and to be quick on its feet—which I am, and do all that. Our loyalty, which amazes people and makes them admire us, is not a big deal to dogs. In reality, we stay loyal because we cannot change owners. We just need to get lucky and end up with a decent one. I really got lucky with mine! I am all my owner has. I’m his entire family. He’s lost everyone. We have lived together for years and been through thick and thin. We have always had each other’s back in all kinds of weather, health and illness, happiness and sorrow, in times of grief and celebration, and chaos or uneventful days. One look from him was enough for me to know where to go, whether to stay or run, whether to be quiet or bark. One look from me was enough for him to see if I was hungry, anxious, or sick. For years, this was our relationship; we weren’t a dog and its owner. We were buddies. I say were because we are not anymore. He is no longer the man he once was. Maybe I’m not the same dog, either. You can’t deny the effect of time. His situation is different, though. It kills me to say despite having spent a lifetime together, I no longer recognize my owner. 

My nose can pick up on humans’ emotions. A philosophical dog like me would never want to be a human in another life. Humans are simple but high-maintenance creatures who think they are complicated. Sometimes, they are pitiful because they are scared of vulnerability. We animals grow up vulnerable and learn to surrender to nature. Humans are constantly in competition with it. That’s why illness, aging, and death unsettles them. For me and the likes of me, these are normal parts of life. We are not afraid of defeat, disease, and death because we are animals. But humans are. And to escape their fears, they hide. Some lose themselves in a valley of habits, while others fall into a well of oblivion. To forget is to be safe. They sink deeper and deeper without knowing it or willingness to confess that they choose to remember no longer. Slowly, they submerge until fully immersed and softened by it. A human who forgets, like my owner, gets used to his new mold. It doesn’t make a difference to him if he’s forgotten to add salt to the food, to take his medicine, or if he brushes his teeth again after he’s already brushed them. For him, forgetfulness is forgettable. But for me—an observer—it’s a different story.  

“I’ve got you a watermelon today. We’ll have some in the afternoon.” 

(I wag my tail so he thinks I’m excited and say to myself, “Yeah, I know. You’ve already mentioned it.”) 

“I’ve got some watermelon today. I know you like watermelons.” 

(I know. I know) 

“When you were asleep, I got us a watermelon to have later.” 

(That’s three times so far. I stick out my tongue to seem super excited.” 

“Can you guess what I got for this afternoon?” 

(Yes, yes, I know.) 

“Surprise!! I got us a grade-A watermelon to have this afternoon.” 

I howl and jump up and down a little to make him happy. 

*** 

 Forgetfulness is permeating. I pretend I can’t remember he’s mentioned the watermelon ten times. The pervasive dimensions of forgetting things can only be understood by the creature who’s going through it and by those around him. We animals don’t deal with this issue the way humans do. Our nature is different, but making sense of human nature is fairly easy for me. A person who forgets becomes a different person and develops a new personality. He is not the same person. A new “him” replaces the old “him” you once knew. And “you” are no longer the old “you” he once knew. When dealing with him, you must be flexible. The old “him” slowly disappears under a thick exterior. The dense fog of forgetfulness spreads in a room like smoke. The new “him,” transformed by this level of forgetfulness, soon becomes “other.” And you have to build a new relationship with this “other” person. Therefore, “you” are not the old you either. His condition involves you, too, because you have to keep pace with his forgetfulness and play the game whose rules the new “him” dictates.

“I didn’t tell you what I got you to eat, did I? Your favorite!” 

(I’m sick of watermelon. He’s mentioned it ten times since yesterday.) 

It feels as if a new owner has replaced my old owner. I barely know this one. Even his smell is new. When he puts my food down in front of me, his hands are indifferent. His eyes are empty when he caresses my head. When we wake up in the morning, it’s obvious he doesn’t know if it’s Friday or Saturday. He no longer reads my expressions. I mean, never mind that; I can hardly make him understand what I need by barking. He repeats the same thing many times, and I have no choice but to pretend he’s saying it for the first time.

When he says, “We tired ourselves today, like we did yesterday, didn’t we?!” I only look at him because there is no use in telling him we didn’t go out yesterday. Neither had we today. We had no physical activities to make us tired yesterday. Neither did we today. I cannot explain to him or remind him that he bought the watermelon yesterday, and despite talking about it ten times, neither of us has had a single bite of it yet. There is nothing I can do. He is not himself anymore, and I have to deal with this new owner who no longer knows me or himself. His condition has disrupted our relationship. I sense his turmoil, and because I am loyal, I cannot help but tolerate him. My responsibility is to mind the house and assure the safety of my owner. I have shared life in all kinds of weather, health and illness, happiness and sorrow, grief and celebration, and chaos and uneventful days with him. Now, I share his dementia, too. 

No one can believe that a simple dog like me could be so wise, but it’s not that strange. One must be an animal to understand nature.  

*** 

“Can you tell me what I saved for this afternoon to give you?” 

(I shake my tail and run to the refrigerator, hoping he will follow me.)  

Nasim Vahabi is a prominent Iranian writer who has published many books in Persian and French, including Amours Persanes (2019), I Remember (Nakja Publishing, 2013), Memoirs of a Liar (Markaz Publishing, 2018), Return Ticket (Markaz Publishing, 2019). Her first novel in French, Je ne suis pas un roman (I Am Not a Novel; Tropismes, 2022) about censorship, was published in 2022 and received rave reviews as well as the prestigious Sciences Po Literary Prize.

Parisa Saranj is a writer, translator, and editor at Consequence Forum. Her writings on contemporary Iranian politics and translations from Persian have been published in several publications, including Hayden’s Ferry Review, Ms. Magazine, Defunct, Two Lines, and Your Impossible Voice. She has also translated two books, Empty and Me (Lee & Low, 2023) by Azam Mahdavi and Women, Life, Freedom: Our Fight for Human Rights and Equality in Iran (Cornell University Press, 2023) by Nasrin Sotoudeh, and two documentaries, Nasrin (2020) and Sansūr (2023), on women’s rights in Iran.

4 May 2025