I think you have underestimated the importance of recent neurological research for the so-called mind-body problem. In fact, everything we call the personality or the soul cannot exist without the the brain.
Does the soul reside in the body, or is an incorporeal entity that exists in a different dimension to which we lack access. Or should I just bite you when you run by?
Guy has just discovered the apple trees at one corner of his territory. He collects the apples one at a time, takes them to his observation post, and nibbles daintily at them. Picture taken just moments after a Wagnerian cider belch.
You call them ducks, or migratory birds, or just plain birds. Guy calls them terrorists.
Baby toes are so scrumptious that sometimes you have just to set aside the rules and take a nibble.
Attempting to slink by, willing herself to be invisible, but it isn't working. Guy knows that his recent paralysis and heartwarming recovery have not given him any additional rights to pester the cat, but the cat doesn't know that.
Dolly the cat watches Guy shimmy, and she thinks, "The audience whose intelligence your are insulting has had enough."
Our patient is hitting his stride, although he hind legs are still a little wobbly and his endurance gives out earlier than before the paralysis. Still, an empty stretch teeming with smells, what could be better?
Guy has been progressing like a fiend. Today, I coaxed him into a trip to the transfer station, where Steve O'Neill hands out treats to all worthy dogs. While waiting eagerly in the hatchback compartment for his reward, our neighbor Hendon Chubb paused in his recycling to pay homage to M. Le Guy. One look at Hendon, and Guy heaved himself from a sit into a full stand -- the first time in almost two months. No sling, no human support, no special effects, just pure canine will.
Blissed out... all the hind leg chakras activated, but not enough kundalini to get in the way of a solid nap.
A visiting veternary technician took advantage of the Vermeer lighting to give Guy some physical therapy. It's closer to "Girl with a Pearl Earring" than "The Astronomer," but maybe it's from a lesser known period by the painter
Sometimes Guy channels the spirit of Diana Ross, even though his fur has too much red ticking to be a Bob Mackie gown.
A visitor tries to cajole Guy into some keyboard stylings, but he ain't willing.
Oh, great Hound, hear my plea. Through Thy canine providence, help me get my rear paws as strong as my front paws, and my front paws as strong as they used to be. Otherwise I will be unable to do thy bidding in catching the cat, who offends Thee by scuttling by and refusing to come within reach.
The steady succession of onward-and-upward pep has stalled. Guy is taking the Big Lebowski for his model today. 
Guy is at physical therapy, an hour's drive away. A heron landed to dine on some frogs. A pair of ducks paddled by. In his absence the yard feels empty and haunted.
From around the world, the messages are coming in: Where's Guy? Why aren't there more posts? When will Guy have his own movie? Where can we participate in Guy's arduous and inspiring recovery? May I give Guy a treat? May I give Guy an organic dog treat from Whole Foods made with quinoa and bulgar wheat? Will Guy attend my art opening? Would you ask Guy if he will endorse my iPhone app/ screenplay/ novel/ pathbreaking piece of performance art? Where does Guy think commodities will be next quarter?
Yesterday, Guy returned to Top Dog for a refresher course in the flotation tank. He's not quite as thin as before, though his palpable bones are a shock to those who haven't seen him for a while. He can stand for about 15 seconds on his front paws, while his hindquarters still need plenty of support. When I straddlewalked him into Top Dog, as soon as he had an audience, he braced his front paws and stood proudly to show off.
I certainly have no intention of taking any more pills. Disguising them in something tasty is a shabby trick, and guess what -- it doesn't work.
Thirty days after being stricken with flaccid paralysis, Guy is back home. He can crawl around military style, and when I hoist him up in a special carry harness he can place his forepaws pretty well. He can even support his front weight for a few seconds. His hind legs are less coordinated and much weaker. You can see how much muscle mass he's lost.
I know the physical therapist s supposed to work my muscles hard so I can recover, but seriously, he needs to chill out.
Dr. St. Clair shot this picture of Guy, who is demonstrating the proper method for graduating first in his class at canine charm school. Here he's resting in between workouts. He's now able to coyly fold his paws.
Guy is picking up his left paw and placing on the underwater treadmill. He's still very awkward and can't support any weight on his own, but he's getting a lot of movement back and working his atrophied muscles. Dr. James says that a minute of exercise in the tank is like seven minutes on dry land.
Dr. James St. Clair takes a deep breath before embarking on a workout. Guy seems to be enjoying himself. He's ooching around on the floor very actively, and by now he's acclimated to being in a strange place.
Guy is working hard, facing as little as another week of basic recovery -- or as long as two-plus months. We'll have to see.
Guy spent a week in intensive care at Cheshire, largely because of a periodic spells of slow heartrate. One additional potential diagnosis that was added to his list was myasthenia gravis, the neuromuscular autoimmune disorder that felled Aristotle Onassis. Several tests ruled that out, mercifully.
...
On the morning of May 5, Guy was late to breakfast, though he came when summoned. A little later he seemed sluggish, so we called his vet, Katherine Skiff Kane in Cornwall Bridge. She was on a barn call, so we agreed to bring him around four o'clock. I examined him carefully for ticks but found nothing. He chewed politely on a treat when offered, but without enthusiasm.
