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My Dogs Really Love Me. Honest!by Paul Pence
Sometimes I worry about whether
or not my dogs really love me. Okay, if you're a parent, you're probably
saying "sometimes I worry about whether or not my kids really love me",
but I don't have any children, so I worry about the next best thing. Of
course, those of you with neither kids nor dogs are probably saying "sometimes
I worry about whether or not Paul is sane." I worry about that too, sometimes.
But my dogs do love me... I think.
I have two dogs. A big horse
of a mixed-breed cocker spainel, lab, golden retriever thingie that
knows all of the Lassie tricks. Sit. Roll over. Beg. Drive a jeep. Shake.
Splint a broken leg. Treat a snake bite. The little dog is a beagley-terriery-labby
type dog. Unlike his older "sister", he's a dumb as a box of rocks.
Their unique names look like
computer passwords -- a random mix of upper and lower case letters at
least six digits long and including at least one numeric character.
To make life easy, you can think of them the same way the volunteer
fireman back in Texas did -- one big primary dog and one small emergency
back-up dog. When I come home at the end of
the work day, they meet me at the door, tails wagging. Every day. I
can't name the last time my wife met me at the door with her tail wagging.
(Actually, I could, if I was willing to get clobbered for it. Some things
you just don't discuss in public.) My dogs don't screech at me saying,
"you left the toilet seat up again!" No! In fact if they could talk,
they'd say, "Thanks, Dad, for the fresh water!" (And for you guys out
there -- tired of being yelled at about this problem? Just do your business
a few times with the seat down and see how much you get yelled at. You
can't win.) My dogs love me. But sometimes
I think that they love food more. When I come home at lunch time, they
don't jump into my arms, they run past me to the dog biscuits left on
my doorstep by the mailman. They consider it tribute that the vanquished
mailman leaves when they chase him off each day. Only after the biscuits
are gone do they finally run to me to welcome me home. At least, I think they love me.
Or maybe they love the food I give them. They smile to me the same way
I smile to my boss. "Sure, Boss, I'd be thrilled to come in to work
on Sunday. Sure, Boss, I can get that report written before I go home
tonight. Sure, Boss, I love it when you play fetch with me and scratch
me behind my ears. Uh... where's the food?" Lassie loved Timmy, right? Rin
Tin Tin loved whoever it was that Rin Tin Tin loved. Freeway loved the
Harts. Tiger loved the Bradys. Frasier's dog loved... uh... Frasier's
dad. So my dogs must love me.
Right? They'll follow me everywhere.
Especially if I'm carrying a hamburger. Doesn't that prove something?
But deep down inside, I know
that if Timmy fell down the well, Lassie wouldn't run to get help until
after she ate the hamburger he left behind.
Copyright © by
Paul Pence
& Rhode
Island Roads magazine
Paul Pence and his dogs
live in Rhode Island where Paul is a freelance travel writer and managing
editor of |
