What Now?

| November 17, 2014 | 0 Comments

Excuse me? You’re the Dog!

Ginger rests up.

Ginger rests up.

 

The problem is, they think they own the place. And while they’re insistent on their superiority, truth is, they’re pretty lucky we’re around, tolerant enough to indulge them in this fantasy.

Not that they entirely lack brains. Our newbie, the young Fen, got quickly comfortable enough to remind us, as we take the last bite of dinner, that it’s his turn. And, secure enough to insist, with growing hysteria, that if we are both in a certain kind of motion, we might – no, we are – probably leaving, and as our exit gift, he’ll get treats. What else counts?

The Bill Walchers’ manic-sweet Ginger expresses herself in somewhat different ways. We are, after all, experienced in wrestling sidewalk garbage from our dogs’ mouths. (I say “garbage.” They think, “food!”) That’s a fight. But we’re not quite sure about Ginger; she clearly has a unique appetite, since her list of find/devour treasures include, but are not limited to: pens,
pencils, placemats, books, ddustpan, Wisk broom, regular broom, watering can…and “cat poop,” too, but that’s in the treat category.

I’ve boasted and bragged in earlier columns about how much our dogs love me…versus the Mister. This is especially painful to him since he’s the one who feeds ‘em. Yet, around here, when Mr. waves the leash, heads for the door, ready to take Fen for a walk, Fen occasionally, yet grudgingly complies. Okay, that only means he’s really gotta go. More often, at the first sign of an outing, he’ll instead race around to find me, his black expressive eyes just begging me to save him from a walk with Mr. what’s-his-name.

Sad to say, the Mr. takes this stuff very seriously. So much so, in fact, that he makes desperate attempts to elicit deserved but undelivered affection from young Fen. Mr. invents all kinds of imaginary responsibilities that will keep him from taking Fen to the groomer – a destination probably highest on Fen’s hate list – lest, thinks Mr., the dog will blame him for the despised experience.

Isn’t there a word, or some disease, for attributing human emotions to animals? Never mind.

So I take him to the groomer, and Mr., trusting that he will be deeply appreciated for the rescue, makes himself available for pick-up. (Unfortunately, I haven’t seen this make a difference in Fen’s affection for him, but the Mr. keeps trying.)

Mr. used to keep, nurture tropical fish. He talked to them, named them, tended them, cleaned their aquariums, fed them. I’m certain they really loved him.

Re: How Cool Are We? from last month: several of you asked about Martine Rothblatt … the subject of a New York Magazine feature, in which his/her wife…involves herself in digital immorality, eternal life research, another project she calls “trans-religion,” and herself, a “trans-humanist.”

You’ve asked me what “digital immorality” means. How come you didn’t ask what “trans-religion” and “trans-humanist” means? Wow! I was hoping you’d tell me!

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