I wrote the below for Column Writing this afternoon in an hour or so. It doesn't touch all the complexities of our relationship, but it's a good primer.
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“Calm down, old man. I’m coming. I’m coming. You’re always so hasty.”
You would be too if you were 75 years old. I’m dying before your eyes, Ben. Turning into dust as we speak. Now take me outside!
“We both know you’re going to live forever.”
I’m going to poop on your head as you sleep.
“I love you too.”
So I talk to my dog. Constantly. Even outside, with neighbors and various strangers looking. And it’s not just an occasional aside or observation. No, full-blown conversations.
My dog started talking a couple years ago during one of my summers home from college. Chris, formerly of this very blog, and I spent most of our summer nights in my parent’s bonus room watching TV, talking and laughing.
Our constant companion was Cooper, my now 10-and-three quarters-year-old Miniature Schnauzer. Sweet, innocent Cooper with his trusting brown eyes, the whites barely occupying the outer corners, giving him a lasting look of child-like wonder, and his fluffy grey beard and ready “smile.” Call me biased, but he is a cute dog.
I prefer handsome, Ben. A fleshy pouch may be all that’s left of my manhood, but, by God, I’m still a man.
“Fine. He is a handsome dog.”
I demand your respect.
Not to say Cooper isn’t a friendly dog. He is. He particularly enjoys the company of females.
“Ah, he’s a cute dog. You’re a cute dog, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
Yes. I am a very cute dog. Just a little closer . . . closer . . .
“What is he?”
“He’s a Miniature Schnauzer. His name is Cooper.”
“Hi there Cooper. You’re just such a cute dog.”
[Cooper leaps upward, nuzzling his nose into her nether regions.]
“Oh my. He certainly is friendly.”
“Yeah. He does that to every girl he meets.”
Hahahahaha. The sweet smell of victory is mine once more!
Over the years, Chris and I have turned Cooper into a maniacal, nihilistic genius focused on murder and power with a weakness for treats and belly rubs. He’s often surly and abrasive. Orders are given but ignored. He recognizes no master. I am simply food-bringer and walk-taker. Our relationship is more toleration than respect.
Or that’s how my voice, which is something of a gruff Southern drawl formed and contained within the back of the throat, portrays him. In reality, he is a very friendly, lovable and loyal dog—the best I’ve ever had.
Cooper and I have been sharing a room since I started high school. When I left for Auburn, Cooper was with me, riding shotgun—my co-pilot.
I lived alone my first year of school, just Coop and me. Like a lot of kids first starting college, I was away from home for the first time, knowing not another human in Lee County. He kept me company that first semester.
And I did the same the time he ate six Daylight Donuts and almost died of pancreatitis. Or the time he ate a quarter sack of *cough* herbs *cough* and lolled on a blanket for three days, alternatively soiling himself and attempting to walk. Or the numerous times he has ransacked the trash can, getting assorted spoiled food items caught in his old man beard.
Regardless, I love him way more than is rational or I’d like to admit. I’m gonna miss him when he eventually ascends to heaven.
You sound like a little bitch.
“I’m just trying to explain the disproportionate amount of love I have for you.”
Whatever bitch. Give me some of that banana.
My dog started talking a couple years ago during one of my summers home from college. Chris, formerly of this very blog, and I spent most of our summer nights in my parent’s bonus room watching TV, talking and laughing.
Our constant companion was Cooper, my now 10-and-three quarters-year-old Miniature Schnauzer. Sweet, innocent Cooper with his trusting brown eyes, the whites barely occupying the outer corners, giving him a lasting look of child-like wonder, and his fluffy grey beard and ready “smile.” Call me biased, but he is a cute dog.
I prefer handsome, Ben. A fleshy pouch may be all that’s left of my manhood, but, by God, I’m still a man.“Fine. He is a handsome dog.”
I demand your respect.
Not to say Cooper isn’t a friendly dog. He is. He particularly enjoys the company of females.
“Ah, he’s a cute dog. You’re a cute dog, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
Yes. I am a very cute dog. Just a little closer . . . closer . . .
“What is he?”
“He’s a Miniature Schnauzer. His name is Cooper.”
“Hi there Cooper. You’re just such a cute dog.”
[Cooper leaps upward, nuzzling his nose into her nether regions.]
“Oh my. He certainly is friendly.”
“Yeah. He does that to every girl he meets.”
Hahahahaha. The sweet smell of victory is mine once more! Over the years, Chris and I have turned Cooper into a maniacal, nihilistic genius focused on murder and power with a weakness for treats and belly rubs. He’s often surly and abrasive. Orders are given but ignored. He recognizes no master. I am simply food-bringer and walk-taker. Our relationship is more toleration than respect.
Or that’s how my voice, which is something of a gruff Southern drawl formed and contained within the back of the throat, portrays him. In reality, he is a very friendly, lovable and loyal dog—the best I’ve ever had.
Cooper and I have been sharing a room since I started high school. When I left for Auburn, Cooper was with me, riding shotgun—my co-pilot.
I lived alone my first year of school, just Coop and me. Like a lot of kids first starting college, I was away from home for the first time, knowing not another human in Lee County. He kept me company that first semester.
And I did the same the time he ate six Daylight Donuts and almost died of pancreatitis. Or the time he ate a quarter sack of *cough* herbs *cough* and lolled on a blanket for three days, alternatively soiling himself and attempting to walk. Or the numerous times he has ransacked the trash can, getting assorted spoiled food items caught in his old man beard.
Regardless, I love him way more than is rational or I’d like to admit. I’m gonna miss him when he eventually ascends to heaven.You sound like a little bitch.
“I’m just trying to explain the disproportionate amount of love I have for you.”
Whatever bitch. Give me some of that banana.
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