There was a dog on that Man’s Best Friend show who supposedly understood like a thousand human words. Border collie, I think. Those guys need to switch to decaf.
The narrator was gushing about this wonder dog, and I’m like, Well, duh, brainiac, of course we understand people.
Not everything, mind you. And some of us are more attentive than others. Depends a lot on just how interesting your humans happen to be.
Certain words will really cause our ears to perk up. The classics: Treat. Walk. Frisbee. Bacon.
And don’t forget the swear words: Vet. Bath. Fireworks. Vacuum cleaner.
We always hear those.
clock versus moon
Julia and I wait by the front door while George says goodbye to Sara.
I think maybe the hardest thing for me about being domesticated—a “pet,” if you insist—is that I can’t control my own schedule. If I had my way, I’d hang out with Ivan and Ruby all day, every day.
Unfortunately, humans love their clocks.
Dogs, we use the sky to tell time, like any sensible creature. Sky says it’s dawn? Time to eat. It’s noon? Time to eat. It’s afternoon? Time to eat. It’s dusk? Time to eat. It’s midnight? Time to eat.
Point is, it’s always time to eat.
Dogs have a thing for the moon, too, like wolves and coyotes and our other relatives. No calendars for us.
Moon looks like a claw, moon looks like half a pancake, moon looks like a tennis ball. Moon looks like a claw again? A chunk of time has passed.
But humans, nope, that’s not enough. It’s not a chunk, it’s a month. It’s not just dawn, it’s 6:32 a.m. on a Thursday, and boy oh boy, we’d better hurry up and go to school or the office, or change the baby, but who gives a woof about feeding the poor, starving, sad-eyed, grumbling-tummied dog?
After a spell, I got used to the comings and goings of Julia and her mom and dad. But it keeps changing. Julia leaves early for school and is gone most of the day. She returns home excited and energized, good scents mostly. But every now and then she comes back smelling a little like me after a visit to the dog trainer—battle weary and ready to crawl under the covers.
Sara, who was pretty sick for a while, is feeling fine again, thank goodness, but she went back to work and she’s away all day, too. And George, who has a job at Ivan’s place, works five, sometimes six days a week.
That means it’s just me and the guinea pigs a lot of the time. I have a doggie door and an outside run, but it’s not the same as touring the neighborhood with your person. Peeing without a potential audience is like talking to yourself.
Sometimes I’m the teensiest bit jealous of Ivan and Ruby. They always have someone around.
Which is crazy, I know. I’m free and they’re not. But there it is.
Told you I’m not a saint.
the shelter
I know our route to Ivan and Ruby by heart, and I can’t help tugging a bit, even though I’m not supposed to. It’s been a couple days since I’ve seen my pals, and I need my friend fix like I need air and water and belly rubs.
We don’t live far. Down to the end of the street, around a corner (good news source there), then a few more blocks.
When I walk Julia—well, okay, I suppose it looks like she’s walking me, but I beg to differ—there’s a place we pass that always makes me jumpy and bummed.
It’s the animal shelter. And I know it’s a good place. A space for pets who don’t have a safe home of their own. When I was abandoned on the highway, just a few weeks old, a nice cage with a soft towel in it and a bowl of fresh water . . . well, I woulda given just about anything for that.
Still, when I walk by and hear all those desperate barks and meows and squeaks, it gets to me.
Sometimes having great hearing is a pain.
Thing is, I realize I have a home and the gang in there doesn’t, and I try not to think about stuff like that, you know?
I mean, it’s not like I can do anything about their tough breaks, right? And in fairness, maybe those animals aren’t like me. I’ve always been a resilient, hardworking sort. Maybe some of those guys even made their own bad luck.
Don’t get me wrong. I try to be a nice guy. I do what I can to make the world a better place, sure. Chat with the guinea pigs. Lick the strawberry jelly off Julia’s hand. Do my wag-and-dance when the ’rents come home to make ’em feel good. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.
But it’s like I said before. You gotta look out for numero uno.
Guess that’s why the shelter harshes my mellow. It’s just . . . you know. I’d rather not have to hear those guys every time I walk by. Makes me sad.
Reminds me of the bad old days.
droolius
I knew this guy, back when I hung out at the mall with Ivan and Ruby. Nice dog named Droolius. Basic mutt, maybe some Lab and golden in there somewhere. He’d done some hard time at a couple shelters. One of those dogs you knew had seen more than his share of the bad stuff the world can throw your way. One ear bitten off. Scars. A limp.
Droolius lived in his backyard. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Chained up mostly. Flies on his food. Empty water bowl way too often.
Still, he always had a nice word to say when I’d pass him on my daily rounds, checking out the neighborhood trash cans.
Once I saw his owner—again, that word!—step onto the back porch. Droolius was barking, but he had a good reason. A stranger had just passed by. Barking is what we’re supposed to do in that circumstance, right?
Maybe he’s the UPS guy, maybe he’s a serial killer. I mean, c’mon, we’re not the FBI.
So anyways. Owner came out, big guy, mean-looking, gave Droolius a hard kick with his boot, yelled, “Shut up, you fool,” disappeared.
Droolius looked at me, kinda embarrassed. We kept talking. A few minutes later, the owner came out again. Put some towels on a line.
Droolius headed over, tail between his legs, cowering, saying, I’m sorry I love you I am yours yours yours with his whole dog being.
Guy completely ignored him, headed back inside.
“He’s having a tough time,” said Droolius when the guy was gone.
“He’s a jerk,” I said, because subtlety is not my strong point.
“No. He loves me. He does.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
“Humans,” said Droolius, licking a sore on his leg. “You know how they can be.”
“Do I ever.”
“But we gotta stay true. Love ’em. Forgive ’em.”
I thought about that. Thought about it a lot.
“Why, though?” I finally asked. “Why do we have to forgive them?”
Droolius looked shocked, then confused. As if I’d just asked why cheese tastes good. It just does.
“That’s the way it is,” he said. “That’s what we do, Bob.”
I started to reply, but I managed to hold my tongue, which is not easy for me. It’s a very long tongue with a mind of its own.
There was no point in making Droolius feel worse than he already did.
Later that morning, I found half a turkey sandwich. Gave the whole thing to him.
Well, okay, I had a taste first. But still.