Longtime readers may recall that when the Spousal Unit leaves the house and the dog and I are alone with our brandy, we often have conversations, mostly about me.
Being a journalist I am by nature self-centered and garrulous, always willing to make myself the focus of any discussion, and especially when the only one in the room is the dog. (Our dog, originally named Katrina, is known as Puppy.)
I was all set to tell her about the time I went to Jack’s Goat Farm in Cloverdale, picked her out of a litter and brought her home. Thought she might like to learn about her heritage and ancestors and such.
But no. Instead, Puppy the dog shushed me with the wave of a paw and launched a monologue.
“I’ve got a few things that need to be said,” she announced. “I’m 85 dog-years old, I’m crippled-up and won’t last much longer. I’m not going to listen to another of your gassy fabrications about the time you chased all the cats out of Mendocino County, or invented dog food out in the garage. Bosh and poppycock, and I’ll have no more of it.
She glared at me and resumed: “As you are certainly aware, I have little interest in the affairs of you and your co-humans, but at this point it seems prudent to intervene. You people are making quite the botch of it all, and after discussing it with my friends Boo, Max, Andrew, Haley and Liz, we felt matters must be addressed. I thus offer stern advice about the way of the world at present, and manners in which things might be greatly improved if only humans would learn from dogs.”
“Like sniff each other’s butts when we meet?” I chuckled.
“Brilliant,” responded Puppy. “Perfect. Crude, stupid remarks about butts and poop and such demonstrates the level of sophistication found in you people. ‘Sniff butts, har har har’ is an idiocy all dogs are forced to listen to every day, and it simply reinforces what witless boors most of you are.
“Let me simply say a dog can learn more with a quick inhalation of a canine backside than people learn in weeks of conversation. A single whiff and I can tell where a dog’s from, how far she’s walked today and from what direction, what she had for breakfast, what kind of car she rides about in, and how many children she’s forced to coexist with in a house of how many square feet located in which neighborhood.”
I blinked. Twice.
“All elementary,” Puppy said. “Let’s move on. No telling when ‘She Who Smothers Me with Affection’ will return.
“The world today is rather a mess,” Puppy continued, “and from a dog’s perspective much of it is the result of silly obsessions among humans. Example One: Your greed. Now, my good fellow, we dogs certainly understand squabbling and wrestling over food. Survival and all that.
“But hoarding toys? Owning yachts? Baseball cards? Autographs? You’ll not meet a well-bred dog who engages in such pointless acquisitions. Money of course is the worst, starting with your collective delusion that scraps of green paper have intrinsic value and must be kept in big buildings with locks and vaults.
“Or, in your case, tucked under the mattress. Your money fetish leads straight to such follies as stock markets, and pretending there’s value in useless junk like diamonds, gold or Andy Warhol paintings.
“A dog collecting rocks, metals and gaudy illustrations from labels torn off cans of Purina Chow would be considered mad,” said Puppy. “Not even cats indulge in such insane practices, though I understand magpies and squirrels at times acquire shiny objects for purposes unknown.
“But do humans truly aspire to attain the level of birds and rodents? Another thing: why the obsession with televised sports? Any game other than ‘fetch’ seems unnecessarily complicated. The uniforms are embarrassing, the rivalries absurd.
“And you should abandon this so-called ‘work’ nonsense,” said the dog. “Most of it makes no more sense than digging a hole in the yard and filling it back in, but neglecting to bury a bone.
“The capper is employment. You’ve invented jobs so you can fret and worry, believing that if you toil long and hard enough you’ll obtain more scraps of moneypaper to hide.
“And what’s with all the antagonism and rivalry among you people? What Dalmation resents a Beagle?
“Who’s ever heard of a Collie getting riled up because Chihuahuas moved in down the street? But humans all act like demented Pitt Bulls, growling and snapping at one other.”
With that the dog stopped, tilted her head to the side, alarmed.
“Yikes!” she said. “Her car! I can tell from the engine noises you never bother to have repaired. I suggest you check for a leak in the exhaust manifold, by the way.”
We made quick work of the remaining brandy as the door swept open.
“Honey, I’m home!” cried Trophy the wife.
“Bark bark, arf arf, woof!” replied Puppy the dog.
(Tom Hine frequently writes under the TWK byline, and splits his time between NorCal and NorCaro.)
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