Very Well Then

There is nothing more boring than a person writing about their dog.    I own a dog.  That special thing between a human and a dog – I get it.  But I can’t stand reading or hearing owners go on about their little special one.  Even reading about it, you can hear the baby talk.  There are free magazines here in town dedicated to dog owners – I don’t pick them up, and I’m their target audience. 

So don’t read this.  No matter what I tell you, not about the five thousand miles of running we’ve done, not about the time I had to brush hundreds of yellow jackets off of her back,  not about how she barks at street lamps,  not about how her eyes will glance up at the top of the refrigerator where the dog treats are any time you pay her attention in the kitchen, not about that back-of-the-knee nook of my fetal sleep-position that she burrows into when she jumps up on the bed on cold winter mornings, not about how she barks at paragliders, not about the time she stepped on the power window button in the backseat of the car and when the window started rolling up on her neck she panicked and stepped even more firmly onto the window button, not about how she’s outright cruel to Takoda – her first dog friend – but submissive to every other dog on earth, not about the time I tied her up outside a store and came back to find her gone, not about how she barks at overhead tram cars,  not about her hound-dog howl, not about her fear of swimming, and for godsake not about her love of beaches or  snow or the woods or her focus on cats and squirrels…No matter what I tell you, you rightfully will dismiss it as the banal tripe that it is.

No matter how I tell it, it’s a boy and his dog story.  That’s all it can be.