With its placid blue skies and desirable mid-October temperatures, Fall Break proved to be the perfect time to run around outside, take a stroll through the park, or even read Ralph Waldo Emerson’s famous “Them Trees Sure Is Purty!” to Sweetie under the comforting limbs of an old acorn-sputtering oak.
Naturally, I did none of those things, instead opting to engage in such stimulating activities as watching re-runs of “Clarissa Explains It All” and challenging my dog Phoebe to staring contests. It was during one of these contests that I was miraculously bestowed with long sought-after information regarding the complexities of dog thought. After several minutes of intense staring, she leaned in and whispered in my ear, explaining in great detail the important things she thinks about every day in a noble attempt to not only strengthen the human-canine relationship but also to plead for more food. Braced with this newfound knowledge, I will now reveal the age-old mystery of dog thought via the following segments of one particular day during Fall Break, as relayed to me by my sweet little yellow lab.
11:30 a.m.: The alarm clock sounds, whereupon I promptly hit the snooze button for the ninth time. Phoebe, who lies beside me, lets out a frustrated grunt and continues waiting patiently for my awakening.
Phoebe: “Are you kidding me? Are you really gonna do this to me again, Eilerson? I’m starvin’ my ass off here! Come on, man, get your butt in the kitchen! Whoa there, Phoebe, calm yourself. He’ll get up eventually. Just chill out and act innocent. No reason to freak out over this.”
11:48 a.m.: The alarm clock sounds for the 11th time, whereupon I once again hit the snooze. Phoebe attacks with aggressive face-licking.
Phoebe: “OK, you useless sack of cat excrement, that’s it! Prepare to get your face eaten! Ha! Now you’ve got poop all over your face! That’s right, when you threaten to starve me to death, you force me to eat my own feces. Your fault, bud.”
11:55 a.m.: Phoebe wolfs down her breakfast in 27 seconds, a new personal record. She then seeks out the leash resting on the counter and begins to jump repeatedly toward it. I tell her to stop acting like a drug-addicted dog that has just spotted a stash of heroine.
Phoebe: “All right! 27 seconds! I dominated that meal! Time for my walk! Now where is that strangle-rope? Aha! Come on, rope, let’s go! Get down from there! Damn it! Hey, Nick! The rope doesn’t want to come down again! Drug-addicted? Excuse me? How dare you! Don’t make me take a crap in your trash can again!”
1:30 p.m.: After a well-deserved nap, Phoebe rushes outside to take care of some important business in the backyard. She commences digging several holes in my mother’s garden, seemingly searching for some precious buried object.
Phoebe: “Alright, I am going to dig up that poop if it’s the last thing I do...”
2:30 p.m.: Phoebe naps on the floor, and, feeling quite tired myself, I decide to join her. I rest my head gently on her belly and begin to fall asleep. Suddenly, a cat appears in the nearby window. Phoebe bolts up and starts barking loudly and clawing at the window.
Phoebe: “Oh, no. Eilerson, don’t even think about it. Wait, wait, aw man! What are you doing? That is not at all comfortable, you fool! Oh well... Oh my God! Nick, there’s a demon outisde! He’s going to kill us all! Holy crap we have to do something! Let me at him! Let me at him!”
2:32 p.m.: The cat disappears, and Phoebe finally begins to calm down. She plops back onto the floor to resume napping.
2:33 p.m.: The mailman approaches the front door. Phoebe bolts back up and attacks the door.
Phoebe: “Oh my God! The burglar is back! Back off, burglar! Quit coming here! Don’t you get it? I’m a freakin’ watch dog! This just ain’t the right house to rob, you moron! Yeah, that’s right! Walk away, j******!”
4:00 pm: I sit down to watch another informative episode of “Clarissa Explains It All.” Phoebe reluctantly lies down beside me.
Phoebe: “Seriously, dude? You’re like 20 years old. Are you really still watching this crap? Gotta say, I’m pretty tired of watching that creeper Sam climb up that ladder. Oh well, at least you’ve moved past CatDog. That show was messed up.”
Nick’s column runs biweekly Fridays. He can be reached at n.eilerson@cavalierdaily.com.
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