April is the nurturing owner of two fine dogs, Scout and Dodger. I say ‘nurturing’ in the sense that April turns every pet into a human. I know this because I hear her ask them questions, which she expects them to answer. I say ‘fine’ because at least the two pups don’t live in our house.
Every morning, April crushes the spirit of Dodger while infuriating Scout. Because they can’t speedwalk, she has ceased taking them on her morning walk. The two dogs understand this change about as well as they would understand a dissertation on the migration routes of Mongolian waterfowl. Or understanding the back of a box of Cheerios for that matter. Their minds calculate thusly: “Woman walking away. Bad. We behind wire fence. Also bad.”
Never mind she takes them on their own walk when she returns from speedwalking, whatever that is. If ducklings wildly swung their wings in excruciating agony while chasing mama duck, that comes close to describing speedwalking. It’s supposed to be good for the heart, but who really knows? I suspect it’s a government conspiracy.
Even though the two pups will eventually enjoy a walk of their own, their combined memory bank must be the size of lint. This explains why, as soon as April starts down the road, Dodger and Scout burst into maniacal, incessant barking. Since they make no attempt to harmonize, I find it irritating.
Dodger loves April more than she loves Purina Dog Chow. If Dodger could, she’d stay glued to April’s side all day long. If April throws a ball for Dodger to fetch, there’s nothing that will stop her. Not a fence, not a body of water, not even an upset grizzly bear. As April speedwalks down the road, Dodger’s shrill, desperate bark seems to say, “How could you do this to me? We love each other. Is it me? I can change. You are my whole reason for living. I’m tempted to drink Drano.”
Scout, on the other hand, loves Scout more than she loves Purina Dog Chow. Devotion, disease—one and the same to Scout. If April throws a ball for Scout to fetch, she looks at April as if to say, “Get it yourself.” Her full-throated barking seems to be saying, “A walk? Who cares? If I wanted to, I could go. You really think this fence can hold me? This entire planet couldn’t hold me if I was so inclined. Drink Drano, lady.”
From my chair on the back porch, where I enjoy my morning coffee while never ever contemplating speedwalking, I holler at them both to stop their barking. Dodger shrivels up and slinks off. As she goes, she seems to be saying, “But you don’t understand. I adore that woman. I’m on the brink of suicide here.”
Scout stares back at me as if to say, “Who are you? How would you like to wear that cup of coffee?”
Eventually, April returns from her speedwalking (whatever that is) and prepares to take the two dogs for a walk. Of course, this sends them into frenzied excitement, and they do what all dogs do whilst in the throes of unparalleled anticipation. They bark. A lot. But never in some sort of musical harmony. It’s as if they’ve never heard of Mozart.
Dodger’s notes of shrill adoration seem to say, “I knew you would come back. I never doubted. I promise you won’t regret this. I will be even more devoted to you. I’ll fetch a hundred balls if it suits you! Never will a flea of mine alight upon your fair and beautiful skin.”
Scout’s barking comes across as more of an arrogant shrug: “Chickened out, huh? You knew better, huh. You knew I could call down a host of fleas to infest your body. If I had a ball, I’d make you fetch it.”
That was this morning. But every morning, it’s the same ol’ story. If only the dogs could remember from the day before. That would mean Dodger wouldn’t daily contemplate suicide, and Scout wouldn’t—well, maybe there’s little hope of anything different from Scout. After all, she’s a goddess. Apparently with super powers. Just ask her.