So I was lying in bed the other night, and I heard a dog bark.
But it wasn’t one of my pooches, nor was it one of the bloodthirsty mongrels next door. It sounded different. I laid there, having been woken by this strange dog’s bark. Unfortunately, the Bride was working the late shift, so she couldn’t get up and check it out. Damn that woman. That was one of the tertiary reasons why I got married again.
But the dog continued to bark. I finally got up and went downstairs to investigate. I opened my front door, and found a strange midsized cocker spaniel looking dog. Now, I don’t like dogs because they smell funny, make a lot of noise and stick their wet noses into your armpit when you’re trying to get dressed, but I particularly hate cocker spaniels because they are, categorically, the stupidest dogs around. They utilize indoor urination as a method of communicating excitement. They forget to eat. And they always give the same answer when watching Jeopardy.
He looked up to me, and said, “Can the BFD come out to play?” I forgot to mention I can hear dogs talk. I know I don’t like dogs, but when I was a kid, I read some book called “The Word of Dog.” It was full of a bunch of dog related stories about such things like a flooded water dish and proper behavior for the freshly neutered. Shortly after losing the book I discovered I could understand Dog.
“Um, no. What are you doing out here?”
“Just looking for a friend to play with. Hey, what about that fluffy dog? Can he come out? I want to smell what he’s been eating.” He sat down expectantly.
I noticed he was wearing a collar with tags. “No, he’s busy training for the Iditarod.”
“Iditarod? What’s that?” See, I told you cocker spaniels are stupid.
“It’s a race across Alaska where they use dog sleds.”
“Oooh, that sounds like fun. Can I come along? I love car rides.” Now, this might sound perfectly okay, but I have long discovered that dogs lie. There was no way I was going to allow this four footed bladder control problem in my car, much less in a hide covered sled across the Alaskan tundra.
“No, you don’t understand. You don’t ride in the sled—you pull it.”
His disappointment caused his whiskers to droop. “Hm. Guess I would need a little more work on my abs with the Nautilus machine at the club. Well, that’s okay. Can I come in?”
“No.”
“We could discuss Alaska’s position as a last frontier over a cup of chicken broth. I think it’s overrated.”
“Of course you do. Look where you live now. Suburban living does not bring out one’s sense of adventure. You have to seek it out like it was a squirrel.”
“Oh, squirrel? Where? I’ve always wanted to catch one of those.” Cocker spaniels are also easily distracted. I know that my inlaws manage with one only with the help of Ritalin and a large piece of rubber that looks like beefsteak.
It was getting cold, and I had reached my limit. I opened the door and examined the tags. The first was a tag issued by the county certifying that this nocturnal pooch was free from rabies and STDs. Nice to know he practices safe sex, although anyone without testicles generally doesn’t practice any sex. I wasn’t going to tell him that, though, because, after all, he’s a cocker spaniel, and he’s still trying to figure out why his sperm count is so low. The other tag one was a red heart that said "Jesus Loves Me."
“That’s enough of this,” I said, “go home to Jesus.”
The yellow cocker spaniel like dog trotted away. I recalled a line from the Word of Dog—Dalmatians 11:9 "The rejected pooch left without any chicken."
