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Health & Fitness

Dumb Animal

My mom always referred to "God's Dumb Animals" when I was a girl, and of course, I was righteously offended. Here I was, lover of soft gray kittens, best friend of my beagle, Daisy, and my mom was referring to these lovely little creatures as "dumb."  I responded by regularly tossing handfuls of Cheerios into the pachysandra on the side of the house, where no one would notice.  My dad responded by wondering how we had so many rabbits living in the pachysandra. I responded to my dad by staring... dumbly.

Turns out, my mom, with her obligatory "St. Francis Feeding the Birds" statue in our yard, wasn't a horrible puppy-kicker.  She was an animal lover. Mom was referring to their inability to speak.  

Lightbulb moment!  Animals can't speak our language.  Personally, I'd be freaked out if they did.  They do, however, communicate, and I don't mean just by using the "Twilight Bark" as in 101 Dalmatians by Dodie Smith.  Yes, I said Dodie Smith, not Walt Disney.  I read the book dozens of times as a child, and only saw the movie when it was on TV once we had our own children.  I prefer the book, but that's a topic for another day.  

Take this morning.  Please, take it, I'd rather be back in bed, sleeping, but instead I am sitting here, writing, chilled to the bone.  Why?  Because of my dumb animal.

My husband awoke early to attend the Men's Ministry group at our church.  Since he was running a bit behind, he asked me to let the dog out.  I opened the back door, the dog walked out onto the deck, turned around, and stared at me.  We stared at each other through the glass for several long seconds, and I blinked first.  Having lost the staring contest, it was up to me to open the door.  Also because he seems to have misplaced his opposable thumbs and has a problem with door knobs.  

I opened the door just enough to point my arm into the arctic that lives outside and said, sternly, "Go!"  Our "dumb animal" continued to stare, unmoving.  He's approximately one hundred pounds, so if he wants to remain unmoving, there isn't much I can do.  I turned from the door, heading over to extinguish our interior lights, hoping if the dog couldn't see me, perhaps he would go do what he needs to do.  Barefoot, I stepped into a puddle of cold water left on the floor when my husband put on his shoes this morning.  Yuck.  Apparently snow melts off shoes at room temperature but only evaporates if the heat is actually cranked, and our house is fairly chilly in the morning.  Light off, mission accomplished.  Dog remains.  Sighing, I trudge back to open the door.  Step in puddle from other shoe.  Yuck.  It's muddy snow by now, just in case you were wondering.  All the nice clean snow gets used up in the first day.  Open door, say, "Go!"  Dog turns in a complete circle, returns to original glare-at-the-door position.  

Sighing, I turn as well, to get shoes.  Mind you, I am wearing only a flannel nightgown.  L.L.Bean, warm, but meant to accompany an electric blanket and six or seven regular blankets.  But it's the dog who is dumb, not me, so I know I got this.  I step in a third puddle.  Apparently husband didn't just put shoes on, he also had to walk to the door in order to leave.  The nerve.

Cold, wet, muddy feet inserted in shoes (I am so going to pay for this later) I go back to the door, stepping into the North Pole which occupies our yard.  Nightgown has lost all pretense of warmth.  "Go," I command, pointing and walking to the edge of the deck.  Dog obliges, down the steps and into the yard.  I head back to the house, triumphant.  I am master of the dog!  Feeling like I should assume the "King of the World" pose from Titanic, I glance over my shoulder.  At the dog.  Who is sitting in the snow, staring, unblinkingly, at me.  At the door.  Steeling my will, I return to the house.  Closing the door behind me, I see, through the glass, the dog. Right there on the deck again.  Four inches from my face. Staring.  Not blinking.

"Fine!" I say.  Let dog in. Feed dog as he wishes. Open door. Dog trots out.  Does doggie thing in yard.  Trots happily up hill.  Does other doggie thing in other part of yard.  Comes back to door which I swing open on demand at his approach.  Looks triumphantly over shoulder, belly full, doggy things done, at me, standing shivering at door as if waiting for next command from my master.  Trots happily to fluffy bed, snuggles in, falls instantly asleep.  As I, dear reader, am fully frozen and awake, I trot to my computer to write for your entertainment.

Trust me, that pooch can communicate just fine.  Who's "dumb" now?

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