Sunday’s Super Bowl was mostly an exercise in foregone conclusions : Bad Bunny’s halftime show would show off his talent and creativity, the Seahawks would grimly dominate the pitiable Patriots, and I would shout “Get fucked!” at the television when the inevitable commercial for ICE aired. But there was one surprise discussion that sprang to life the morning after the big game—involving lost dogs, the all-encompassing surveillance state into which we’ve gotten locked, and what it means to be a