You’re supposed to be a retriever.

Me:  “I’m gonna throw this tennis ball, and I want you to fetch it and bring it back to me.”

Gracie (feigning disinterest):  (No thanks.)

Me: “It’s not an invitation–it’s a directive.  You’re supposed to be a retriever.”

Gracie (disinterested):  (Part retriever.)

Me:  “Y’know, when people say you look like a freakin’ pitbull, you point out that you’re ‘mostly’ Lab.  When I want you to act like a Lab, you say you’re part ‘terrier’, which itself is a euphemism for pitbull.  You can’t have it both ways.  Besides, fetching tennis balls would be perfect, in that I could do my part from a lawn chair.”

Gracie (put off):  (Whoa–I smell urine … this way… somewhere…not here…)

Me:  “Yo, Gracie.  Over here.  You need to have some FUN here, you jerk, not stand there like Ferdinand the Bull.  Quit smelling urine, and fetch this damned ball!”

Gracie (panting):  (Are we having fun yet?)

Me:  “DON’T MOUTH, you mutt.  FINE.  Stand there and look at me like I’ve just tried to kill you.  You are truly, blatantly lazy.  The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy Lab mix bitch.”

Gracie (looking away):  (You remind me of Nana.) [Nana was my late mother, who was known to be somewhat sarcastic on occasion.]

Me:  “That was cold.”

Gracie (baleful):  (You started it.)

Me:  “Listen.  I’m writing this.  I don’t DO back-and-forth exchanges between you and me. This conversation’s over.  You’re supposed to be a retriever.  “

Primary and backup dogs - circa 2006.

*  *  *

 

It’s not like I enjoy reaching down your throat.

Our conversation today centers on a piece of dried rawhide, approximately 1 3/4″ by 3″, which is lodged in Gracie’s throat.  She is unable to swallow it or cough it up, and she doesn’t exactly want me to know of her distress.  She sits in her ‘box”, quietly clearing her throat, saying, in effect, “Ahem…”  This scene repeats itself pretty much every day.  The way I know there’s something wrong with her is that she’s not panting, which she does virtually all the time.  She needs to turn down her idle.

Although we freely give Gracie these rawhide chips, she thinks we want to take them back from her.  She runs off by herself to consume them.  She coyly hides them in  her mouth if we come into her room.  She continues to worry that we’re going to revoke them while they’re stuck in her throat.  Thus, once I understand the nature of her distress, she resists my efforts to force open her jaws, so that I can 1) see if there’s leather in there, and 2) if there is, reach down her throat and remove it.

Gracie:  (Ahem.)

Me:  “Come here.  Let me look in there.  Dammit, open your mouth so I can see…”

Gracie:  (Seriously, there is nothing…[gagging]  Get your FINGERS out of my THROAT!)

Me (removing the chew):  “Jeesh.  Look at this.  Would you PLEASE chew this up before you swallow it again?”

Gracie (transfixed): (That’s mine.)

She takes the slimy chunk and immediately swallows it, and again it gets stuck.

Gracie (looking askance):  (Ahem.)

Me:  “Come here.”

Again I remove the chip, and again she swallows it and gets it stuck in her throat.

Me:  “Come here.”

I remove the chip for the last time.

Gracie:  (That’s mine.)

Me:  “You’re done with this one.”

Gracie:  (Why are you so mean all the time?)

Me: “I may be mean, but I am not trying to take back your chip.”

Gracie:  (You said “chip.”)

Me:  “Go on, pack up your little things.  We’re taking you back to the pound.  Don’t want you anymore…”

Gracie:  (You are kidding and you do not mean that and you are mean.)

Me:  “Seriously, we’re taking you back.  We don’t need an old black dog anymore.  Ten years of you is enough for anyone.  Go on, pack up your little things.  Say goodbye to your mom.”

Gracie:  (What is a pound?)

Me:  “You’re lucky.”

 

What is it you want?

Gracie (expectantly): (Gimme something!!)

Me:  “Go away.  Raus! That’s German for get outta here.  My dad used to say that all the time to our dogs when I was a kid.  It means get in your box.” (For nine of Gracie’s 10 years, the referenced ‘box’ is nothing more than the corner where her puppy crate used to be located.  She acts as if we can’t get her when she lies there, like there’s some invisible barrier between her and us.)

Gracie (clearly ignoring me):  (Gimme something!  Two somethings!)

Me (measured tones):  “No.  Get in your box, leave me alone, you’ve already had a you-know-what and you’re not getting anything else.  Nothing else, not today.”

Gracie (abashed, lying down at my feet):  (Well, you’re not yelling.  There’s that…)

Me:  “The reason you weigh 85 pounds is that you’re unbearable when you’ve decided it’s time for one, and we disagree on that subject.  That’s when you’re a real pain.  Like right this minute.”

Gracie (lying with her muzzle on my feet): (One what?)

Me:  “Don’t be obtuse, and stop trying to manipulate me.  You know one what.  Mom thinks it’s my fault you’re fat, and she’s right, only because I have to be with you 9 hours more each day than she does.  You are the gaping maw, the bottomless pit, the black hole.  You could eat an entire 17 pound bag of dog chow, throw up, and eat half of another.  I’m really sorry you’re hungry all the time, but I’m not giving you a treat.”

Gracie (hope renewed):  (You said “treat.”)

Me (sighing):  “OK.  But here’s the deal.  You gotta take it outside, and you gotta stay outside for at least 15 minutes.  Deal?”

Gracie (rejoicing): (Deal!  Deal!  I get something to take outside.  Deal!  Deal!)

I let her out with her biscuit.  One minute later she’s pawing at the door.

Me (letting her in):  “In your box, liar.”

Gracie (slinking):  (You’re mean.)

*  *  *

 

On “our” daily walk.

Me:  “Let’s go.”

Gracie (ecstatic):  (Yeah let’s go, let’s go right now, Look!  I’m running around in circles, oops I crashed into the coffee table, put on the leash put on the leash, get a bag, you need a bag, put on the leash.)

Me:  “Settle down, dammit.”

Gracie:  (We’re on a walk.  A long walk.  And we’re going swimming.)

Me:  “Just around the block, tonight.  It’s too hot out here.” (I’m not telling her she’s not going swimming because, in order to do so, I would have to say the word ’swimming’, which would get her going big time.)

Gracie:  (I need to pee.  I need to smell peepee to pee.  Where is the peepee?  Not here, not here, not here not here not here nothere notherenotherenothere…)

Me:  “Just PEE already, wouldja?  Why do you need to smell something frigging NASTY before you can go?  There’s dog pee everywhere on this street!  You need a whiff of something tres piquant to get you started, or WHAT?”

Gracie:  (notherenotherenotherenotherenothere….WHOA!  What is THAT?  That’s no little dog marked that spot.  This is RARE!  This is CHOICE!  I’m definitely peeing here.  My pee says, “I’m Gracie, I live in the Cape Cod next to Sam, and I’m 85 pounds of pure seething fury.  Stay away from my Dad’s frigging house.  Oh, and I pissed on your lawn.”)

Me:  “Thank you.  I hear your dog sense of smell is like 1000 times as good as humans.  If that’s true, why do you stick your snoot right in the middle of the stuff?  Oh, and how do you control your bladder, so that you can stop and go 50 times in 20 minutes?  And do you get some kind of visual from, you know, poop, in addition to what must be the overwhelming scent?  Does the backyard look like a minefield to you?  You’re not even listening, are you?”

Gracie:  (…notherenotherenotherenotherenotherenothere…)

Me:  “Why can’t you just walk around like a regular dog?”

Gracie:  (Why do you bring that bag full of you-know-what back to our house all the time?)

 

Your leg is not broken.

Gracie:  (My leg is broken and it hurts.)

Me:  “Your leg is not broken.  You have arthritis in it.  Remember a coupla years ago, when you were forbidden to run the fence with Sam next door, and you went and ran the fence with Sam anyway and tore your ACL?  At 4:30 in the morning?  You don’t remember that?”

Gracie:  (You broke my leg.)

Me (heating up):  “I didn’t break your leg.  I was THERE when you tore your ACL.  I was also there when it was time to write the vet a check for $1500 to get your ACL fixed.”

Gracie:  (You said “vet.”  I don’t like going to the vet.)

Me:  “Don’t change the subject.  You are an expensive hobby.  We spend literally thousands of dollars each year to keep you walking around.  This month alone I’ve spent three hundred dollars on your allergies and prescriptions.  You are SO not worth it.”

Gracie:  (Hunh?)

Me:  “Seriously, pray that no one does a cost-benefit analysis on you.  You’re not affectionate, bright or well-behaved.  You’re a homely, graying mongrel.  You don’t do tricks, you don’t get my paper in the morning, you get up on all the furniture and ruin it, and there’s PILES of black hair everywhere you hang out.  We burn up a vacuum cleaner every 9 months.  Speaking of which, why is it that you shed in the WINTER?”

Gracie (in singsong): (And why is it that you’re so mean all the time?)

Me:  “Take that tone out of your voice.  Talking with you is a waste of time to begin with.

Gracie:  (No duh.)

Me:  “Perfect–sarcasm, with a tone and an obsolete term of derision, and from a  dog.  No wonder Amos, the best dog ever, didn’t like you.”

Gracie (after a pause):  (My leg hurts.)

 

I’m not your doorman.

Gracie:  (I need to go out.)

Me:  (Here we go.)  “You need to go out?  Or are you just irritated, and you accidentally scraped your claws against the door?”

Gracie:  (I need to go out.)

Me:  “Go out then, go pee-pee, stay out.”

2 minutes later.

Gracie (frantic) : (I need to come in.  I need to come in.  I need to come in right now.  Right now I need to come in.)

Me:  “Good God, Gracie.  What is wrong with you?  It’s perfect out there, almost sylvan, the morning sunlight filtering through the trees, beaming through the humidity in the cool air, and you NEED TO COME IN?  Ya just went out 2 minutes ago.  Jeesh.”

Gracie:  (Why are you so mean?)

Me:  “Because you get stupid when you’re anxious, and you’re anxious a lot.  I don’t mind letting you out, and I don’t mind letting you in.  Just give me half an hour in between, rather than 2 freaking minutes!”

Gracie: (You don’t have to be so mean all the time.)

Me:  “Shut up.”

Two minutes later.

Gracie (scraping her front paws on door) :  (I’m irritated.)

Me:  “I know you don’t really want to go out.  I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking you haven’t had a you-know-what all night.  You’re having trouble getting me to stop ignoring you, so you want me on my feet, then you lead me to the kitchen, to where the chips are.”

Gracie:  (You said “chips.”)

* * *

 

I know what you’re thinking.

Amos and Gracie

Gracie, our ten year old Lab mix bitch, is not a terribly bright dog.  We’ve had her forever, and she’s the top dog since the former top dog passed the way of all things.  I work out of our home, and the dog hangs out with me most of every weekday.

We engage in a dialogue of sorts.  The subjects do not range widely, mostly consisting of going out, coming in, doing one’s business, and where, getting rawhide chips and biscuits and table scraps and all things edible; who’s trying to burgle the joint, get off with our stuff.  The positional status of the meter readers, the FedEx drivers and the 7th Day Adventists.  The dogs next door.

The good thing about Gracie is that all of her communication is non-verbal, but she is totally able to let me know what she’s thinking.  She usually channels through my wife, who tells me what she is saying, in her voice, which is inimitable, to say the least.  Gracie combines at least 4 separate and distinct speech impediments, including:

• Baba Wawa, substituting the W for the R sound;
• The classic lithp, where the TH sound replaces the S sound;
• Substituting the Y sound for the L sound, giving you yips (actually yipth) instead of lips; and
• The Tweetie Bird lisp, “I tawt I taw a puddy tat.”

She does this in a high-pitched, semi-sing song voice–my wife, not the dog–and it never fails to crack me up.

Gracie does it silently when it’s just the two of us.  Sometimes I speak out loud to her, other times just telepathically.  Neither way gets me anywhere, as she mostly does what she wants, or is beyond reason, terrified when my computer crashes and I start talking to it.  When I’m talking to my computer she heads for the basement.  Anyway, when I’m speaking out loud to her, I’m in quotes.  When I’m just thinking AT the dog, or grinding my teeth in her general direction, I’m in italicized parentheses, emblematic of my frustration.  Like this:

Me:  “Gracie, don’t you want to go outside, hang out in the backyard in the perfect summer weather, your $20 a dose Revolution-whatever stuff keeping you flea and tick-free?  The birds chirping, locusts thrumming away?”  (For God’s sake. dog, it’s only perfect out there.  I promise not to eat while you’re outside, so you won’t be missing anything!!!)

Gracie:  (No.)

Me:  “So, what’re you gonna do, just lie in here all day and look out the door?  You’re gettin’ old, dog, and you should find a patch of sunshine out there and lay OUT.  Fool.”

Gracie:  (Why are you always so mean?)

Me:  “I bet if I took a treat out there, you’d come out to get it.”

Gracie:  (You said “treat.”)

Me:  “I bet if I got your freaking LEASH you’d get up and go outside.”

Gracie:  (You said “leash.”)

Me:  “Probably if I threw a CHIP out there you’d get up off your bum and roll out there.”

Gracie:  (You said “chip”.  That’s ALL THREE THINGS–treat, leash, chip.  Now, I get ALL of those things, right now, now, like now, just as soon, treat, leash, chip, now, now okay? okay?…)

Me:  “OK, OK, PLEASE let me get you a treat, a chip and a walk, so you don’t have a freaking STROKE on me here or wear out the carpet.  Thank you for not breathing on my thigh.  I am so sure the next dog won’t have ANY terrier in it.”

Gracie:  (You said treat, chip, leash, let’s go, I’m ready to go, let’s go to the cabinet, hey, I’m ready, treat, leash, chip…)