El maintenant, parlez, mes belles, de l'avenir, donnez-nous des nouvelles ... dites-nous qui nous aimera!
—Carmen
Of course pooch and Bert marry and adopt the baby which, since its mother is in the aquarium and its father clearly unsuitable, is not hard to do. And of course they love it as though it were their own. Later they will have a litter of three: setters and all males, so there will be no hope that they might ever become human and artists in their own right, but Pooch will love them as much as anyone could love another creature, and she will give them every advantage to develop as fully as they possibly can. They will all three have wonderful, strong, vibrant voices, which she will delight in almost as much as she delights in her own. The baby will find them true brothers, and will never be jealous of them, but will delight in running with them in the woods and fields, baying now and then at the moon, and howling when Pooch vocalizes. Though the baby will never learn to sing, it will have a deep, abiding appreciation of music as well as of all arts, influenced by Pooch's example and teachings. It will grow up to write poems as good as or even better than Pooch's. Certainly more modern, strongly influenced by Kenneth Koch as well as Henri Michaux. (Of course it will grow out of biting other creatures except when absolutely warranted.)
Though it will take some time, the doctor will eventually persuade Phillip to marry him. They will have no offspring. Phillip will be sad about that even though she will have her career as a ballet dancer. Instead, she will love Pooch's puppies as though they were her own. And the baby will call her Aunt Phillip.
Chloe and Valdoviccini will have a litter of their own and will give up altogether the apartment in the East Village. Strange to say, Pooch will be sad to see it and all the things in it go, though she knows it's for the best.
Pooch will continue with her psychotherapy, taking up where she left off several months ago with the daisies and such. She will never again allow herself to sleep on a doormat, unless of course it might benefit some other creature for her to do so. The psychologist will understand that a good bit of her personality is hereditary, her ancestors having been bred for generations for just such qualities as she possesses. She is, and will remain, basically, as stated in the official publication of the American Kennel Club: “The mild, sweet disposition characteristic of this breed, along with the beauty, intelligence, and aristocratic appearance it makes in the field and in the home, has endeared it both to sportsmen as well as all lovers of a beautiful, active, and rugged outdoor (companion).” But since she is human by now she'll be harder to live with, though there will be more rewards for doing so.
As she grows older Pooch will sing better than ever, and delight the world with her voice and her grace. Also she will continue, as she promised the dying Rosemary, to fight for the rights of all creatures, yet being careful to “not win.” And she will write her opera, titled simply, Rosemary: In Memoriam. The two best arias in it will be “Oh, the Songs of Selves” and “Neither Conqueror nor Conquered; Neither Victory nor Defeat."
And what of the universe in general while “it is being woven out of light and at the speed of light"? One can, without a doubt, assume that its equilibrium is interconnected with all other manifestations, even as Marcus Aurelius said long ago. It is, in short, harmonious with itself. (Which is how Pooch is, as well as Bert, and how the baby grows up to be also.) And whatever it may be (which can be argued by the experts for a long time) or may come to be, it is recreating itself every fraction of a second, even as you and I. Of that we can be sure, despite appearances to the contrary.
"In the realm of light there is no time.” That is said nowadays by the most modern of the physicists. If that is true, then that is how it is with Pooch and with Carmen and with all the others.