A Dog’s Life

My dog can talk.  I don’t mean like when you tell your dog to speak, and it barks and then you give it a Milk Bone, it makes crumbs and drool on your floor and then goes to lay down.  I mean mine can speak.  English.

I know what you’re thinking: “D.Parker, you have really fallen off your wagon, I mean rocker, this time,” but just hear me out. Last week Stella revealed her true self to me. I was asleep, as I’m wont to be at 6:30am, when I heard someone at my bedside shout, “Hey!”  Startled, I opened my eyes and saw her standing there. She’s usually polite in the morning, and will just stare me awake, like my kids would do when they were toddlers: I would pretend to still be asleep, and they would eventually peel up my eyelids to double check.  Sometimes Stella will lick my hand or toe if it’s peeking out of the covers, but I can feel the stare. If I don’t open my eyes and make eye contact she might walk away with a sigh and let me languish a bit longer.  Clearly on this particular day she was feeling impatient.

So there we were, her staring me down as I tried to figure out who just hollered at me, which, I may add, is not a very pleasant way to start the day, when all of a sudden she said, “Get up already, I gotta pee and I’m starved,” in a deep, raspy voice. That time I saw her mouth move. “Geeze Louize, Stella,” I replied, rolling out of bed and not quite sure if I was actually awake, “you don’t have to be so rude!  And by the way, when did you take up smoking?”

We get to talking and she explains that with the kids finally gone, she figured she could get a word in edgewise.  Boy, oh boy, is she right…she’s quite the Chatty Cathy! Once I got over the shock and awe, I was excited! Finally someone to help me decide what to wear on Saturday night, listen to me bitch about Maverick, discuss the benefits of wine over tequila, what color I should paint my toes, what I should make for dinner, who are crazier, the Housewives of Orange County or New Jersey?  But all she wants is to have intellectual conversations about world politics, why I’m not a vegetarian, and climate change.  I always knew she was a smart dog but this was ridiculous.  “Stella,” I pleaded, “why don’t you lighten up?”

When other people are around she pretends she can’t talk. She laughs like a hyena about it later cause she knows people are starting to think I’m crazy.  Perhaps “starting” is the wrong word.  But she won’t even speak to Mav, and even though he keeps saying, “D.Parker, your attention seeking behavior has risen to a whole new level,” (is it wrong that I took that as a compliment?), I think he believes me and is insanely jealous.  Aren’t you?  It’s pretty awesome having a talking dog, despite how it’s also kinda scary  cause she may be smarter than me, and often uses that “tone of voice” that can make me dribble in my thong.

Caring for her now is so much easier, since we can discuss everything: when she wants to be walked and fed; why she doesn’t like her $250 monogrammed, Tempurpedic bed as much as she likes my bed (“Spend a lifetime sleeping on the floor and then ask yourself that damn question”); why she dislikes certain toys (she hates the pink ones because “pink is hideous,” and she prefers the stuffed variety to the rubber…they offer a better “chew” she says); what she doesn’t like to eat (beef or anything beef-flavored bothers her “sensitive stomach”), why she limps (“For God’s sake I’m a middle-aged female with a hysterectomy, arthritis was bound to catch up with me!”), why she only barks at some dogs (“Isn’t it obvious?” um, no it isn’t…), why she likes people better than dogs (because we talk and wear clothes) and why she is so in love with Bianca’s boyfriend (“He’s just got a certain je ne sais quois…”).

I always thought my Stella lived a pretty good life, before all this conversation.  I’ve always said that it doesn’t suck to be her.  So now that we can really communicate, you would assume that her life couldn’t get any better, after I make the requested and proper adjustments to her meals, her toy box, and “stop asking all these annoying questions” of course.  But no: give the dog an inch, and she’ll take a yard.  She has a host of other human things she wants to do!  She says they are on her bucket list, and as she’s nearing her approximate life expectancy, she wants me to “hurry up and get with the program.”  She really can be quite aggressive.

Anyway, for starters, she wants to learn how to cook.  Now this is something I’m not 100% opposed to, as I wouldn’t mind a little help around the kitchen. However I do have some concerns, the least not being fear of a grease fires, and dog hair in my food.  But if she can demonstrate her dexterity with a pair of tongs and a spatula, I’m willing to buy her a hair net and an apron.

The next thing Stella wants to do is learn to read, and I certainly agree that a talking dog should be able to read, as I am a huge fan of literacy.  But when I came home with abridged versions of “The Call of the Wild,” “Old Yeller” and “Lassie, Come Home,” I was quickly rebuked.  “What am I,” she barked, “a stupid little boy with no hair on his balls?” And then sent me back out to exchange them for a copy of “50 Shades of Grey,” adding “Don’t even think about buying the abridged version!”

Lastly, she wants to learn how to drive. Now here’s where I think she’s getting cocky.  I didn’t have the guts to tell her I just don’t feel comfortable letting her drive my car, so I took another approach. “Honestly Stella,” I beseeched her,”do you really think I can afford to add you to my insurance policy?”

“Listen, you idiot,” she chided me in that tone she likes to use when she calls me an idiot,”why do you think I want to learn how to read and to cook?  Obviously, I plan on getting a job at the Applebees. I can pay for my own damn insurance.”

What a bitch.