Mind Melding With My Dog

STORY 1 – A DIALOGUE WITH YOUR DOG

You can be the guy walking the dog and I’ll be the old barker sniffing around in an untended patch of grass in front of an abandoned house near where we live. Since we have mind meld like in sci fi stories, I ask you, “Why can’t a being ponder this God-thing without religion?”

You haven’t had your coffee yet and you’re grouchy. “Christ, not this again,” you say. “It’s simple: You can’t have God without wondering how come you got here in the first place and that’s where religion comes in.”

I try to scratch behind my ear but my paw won’t reach. Still, it gives me an appropriately puzzled look. “So you’re saying we invented God? Why would we do that?”

“We didn’t INVENT him. We just made him up because we couldn’t think of anything else.”

I wrinkle my nose. I got a great smeller. I know there’s a gopher somewhere around. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t exist.”

“Don’t start that sexist crap with me.”

“Doxie says that Feynman says if there’s a God she’s gotta be a she because bitches are closer to creation.” Doxie is the poodle who lives next door. Her owner watches Nat Geo and PBS all the time so Doxie knows lots of stuff.

But you’re not in a good mood and you’re having none of it. “Are you going to take a whizzer or not? I don’t have all day you know.”

I raise my leg and give a few obligatory sprinkles to an unsuspecting dandelion growing up in a sidewalk crack. “You didn’t answer my original question.”

You sigh, doing that blathery lip thing, “Okay. The truth is we are not as smart as you think we are. It’s almost impossible to imagine anything without ourselves in it.”

“Like you’re the center of your own universe? How stupid is that?”

“Don’t act so superior. Your world revolves around your own dog bowl.”

“Does not.”

“Does too.”

I give my head a shake, shake, shake. It’s obvious we’re not going to agree on this one. You shrug and we head back toward the house. I would have liked to take a poop, but I know you have to get to the office and I can probably hold it in for a while. Delayed gratification, you know.

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STORY 2 – ANOTHER CONVERSATION WITH YOUR DOG

Okay, this time I get to be the dog:

You come in the house through the back door, throw the keys to your ancient VW bus on the divider between the kitchen and the nook and slump into your favorite chair. I look up from my foam mat on the floor and give you a sad look. I got empathy down real good. “What’s your problem, pal?” I smack you with a mind meld. I catch the scent, you’re really in the dumps; another moment you’ll have me in a sympathy howl.

“I got into another argument with some fool at work,” you say.

“I warned you against that. Just keep your mouth shut.”

“This girl was the worst. A true believer.”

“Religion or politics?”

“Both, I think.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m guessing abortion.” I do a little snuffle, hoping for a treat from the yummie jar. But you don’t take the hint. I forgive you, seeing how tired and out of shape you are. You really have to get back to that gym, I can actually hear your heart complaining. I think I better ask you a stupid, easy one to make you feel a little better. That’s like on page one of the yummy begging manual. “Is it just you saps who breed yourselves into extinction?”

“Naw, everybody does it.”

I can’t believe that. “Everybody – like who?”

“Well…tyrannosaurus rex, for instance.”

“Bad example. The dinos were taken out by a big meteor, changed the climate.”

“Well…lemmings, then.”

“Another bad example. Lemmings went extinct following each other over a cliff.”

“You sure about that?”

“Pretty sure. When’s the last time you saw a lemming?”

“Hey, what’s your point with this whole thing?” you say.

“Boy, aren’t we touchy. How about it’s time for my evening chow?” I try to change the subject but you are stubborn as a cow. I think cows are stubborn; at least I overheard that somewhere, maybe on a TV commercial for almond milk.

“You think you are an exception?” you say. “If it weren’t for wolves and fleas trimming your herd you’d be at each other’s throats, just like us.”

I tell you we don’t have herds, we run in packs.

“Same difference, McGee,” you say.

So after that sage pronouncement you get up and go to the storage room and come back with a bowl full of dog food sprinkled with cheddar cheese just the way I like it. You’re a good human; you don’t bear a grudge just because of the sad consequences of the mortal condition we share.

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STORY 3 – DOG WALK 3

You remember the gig, right? Your name is Charley and you’re walking the dog and I’m the dog only we’ve got mind meld like on Star Trek so we talk about stuff. It’s dog walk time on a foggy Monday morning in October and we go out the door and through the front gate and take the street uphill from our house and we’re not even a half a block into it when a coyote starts in behind us, the goofy dork thinking we don’t know he’s there.

“Coyote alert,” I growl.

“Yeah, I see him,” you say. “He’s about as invisible as a big yellow school bus.”

“Yeah, or one of those Deep State crooks.”

You laugh inside, that derisive way you have when you think I don’t get something that’s really simple, “What’s that, yummie-gulper? Where’d you hear about the Deep State, if it even exists?”

“You think a dog can’t know stuff, Mister Sapiens?”

“Don’t get your fluff in a ruffle. Tell me, fur boy: What do you know about the sewer?”

“It’s called ‘the swamp’. The guy you voted against wants to drain it.”

“Yeah, well, where’d you hear about it?”

“Doxie’s owner watches Fox News.” Charley gives me skeptical. On him it just looks dumb, like he vacated his brain for a while. If you don’t know it, Doxie’s my crush. She’s a pure class poodle, lives next door, we’re kinda close.

I scratch my left ear. I’ve got really big ears. I’m half beagle and half Great Dane. (don’t ask). I give you a sad look. You really close your thinking to a lot of reality. The coyote, sensing we may not be paying attention, closes the gap between us, now a couple dozen yards behind. He tries hiding behind a fire plug; if he thinks that’s gonna work he’s dumber than Charley. “Don’t be so narrow minded,” I tell him. “Doxie’s owner is one hot babe. Your age, too. You ought to check her out.”

You sigh, pausing a moment to pretend you’re staring off into the misty clouds while you pick your nose. Owners don’t think their pets notice things like that. Silly. We see everything. You give me a bored look, “Doxie’s mistress goes to church.” And with that you eye me like that’s the end of the discussion. When I don’t say anything, you take the bait like a freight train tuna. “Okay, furry buddy, tell me all the drivel you overheard about the so-called deep state.

“I’ll quote, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

“Okay, here it comes at you: ‘It has been the one song of those who thirst after absolute power that the interest of the state requires that its affairs should be conducted in secret…But the more such arguments disguise themselves under the mask of public welfare, the more oppressive is the slavery to which they shall lead.’”

“Oh, great. Who said that, Sean Hannity?”

“No. Spinoza.”

“Who?”

“Baruch Spinoza. The Jewish-Dutch philosopher of – “

“I know who Spinosa is.”

“Was. He died in 1677. And you interrupted me.”

“That just makes my point. That was then and this is now.”

“Just so history doesn’t repeat itself too easily, allow me to continue: ‘Better that right counsels be known to enemies than that the evil secrets of tyrants should be concealed from the citizens’ ”

“I don’t see how – “

I take a moment to pee on an interesting ragweed and give the coyote a warning look. I glance off into the misty clouds, trying my master’s move, you know, the wise gazing into ultimate reality, but on me it looks just as stupid, “Charley, I will continue in spite of your rude interruptions. Spinoza tells us, ‘They who can treat secretly of the affairs of a nation have it absolutely under their authority, and as they plot against the enemy in time of war, so do they against the citizens in time of peace.’ “

“Woow, dude – that’s a lot to take in.”

“Nitimur in vetitum semper, cupimusque negate.”*

You give me your Alice-lost-in-wonderland astounded look. “Don’t tell me you know Latin?! What the hell does that mean?”

“No time for that now. I think you better pick up a rock and huck it at that coyote.”

“Like we don’t got predators around, everywhere we look.”

“Smartest thing you’ve said today, Charley.”

And you feel your chest swell up with pride. It’s something when your dog admits you got something right.

* Based on the prohibition, there is always a desire to deny it.

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STORY 4 – DOXIE GETS PUPPED

I take a superdog leap and end up back on our side of the fence. It’s not too hard; the secret is my girl Doxie’s owner Randi has stacked cushions on her side of the block wall without thinking things through. Makes it easy for Doxie and I’m way bigger than her, even though she’s a champion poodle with medals and such and we’ve actually seen her on TV.

You sit there in your favorite old lawn chair, head back on your favorite old green pillow, grinning at me until the grin fades and you groan and reach half way across the table, grab a worn out tennis ball and give it a pathetic toss half way to the geraniums. I don’t even need mind meld, I can tell you’ve had a bad day. I ignore the ball and give you the old paw-on-the-lap sympathy move.

I meld you, “Really bad day, huh?”