To the Dogs!

Me? Yes. I talk to my dog Max. Of course.

No baby talk, mind you. That foolishness is handled by family and friends who treat my 90-pound side of canine beef as if he were a puppy curled up in their laps.

Nothing too serious either. No lectures on the clever insidiousness of Marvell’s seducer. (I can hear former students howl their relief in the distance.) Well, I do bark at him to chew his food when he snorts up the bits like a Dyson set on max. He hacks up the mouthful and I tell him to chew and then he daintily eats up the mess on the floor one nugget at a time. Every meal.

Sure, the basics are in place: sit, wait, in or out—either as a question or as a command. Typically on our morning walk I will several times urge him to “hurry” when I have let him spool out the leash and lag behind.

Sometimes, the one-sided chat is just part of daily sociability. “Are we having a good day?” Or “tell ‘em”, when he barks at the blue heron or the beavers or the neighbors starting up their truck or a golf cart passing by or a motorcycle or a riding mower.

Weather stuff, too. “It’s too hot,” I say. Max hangs his tongue out like a limp dishrag.

We have our understanding about personal space. “Go sit down” he knows to mean that I am tired of him pestering me. Unless there is a storm approaching or on top of us and then my tone changes and “Go sit down” means go to his safe room, the laundry room in human terms.

Sure, like most dogs, Max will dream—doesn’t always seem pleasant by way of his moaning. I bring him out of it with a simple question: Chasing rabbits, Max?

Yesterday was National Dog Day apparently. We always seem to miss the occasion.

So let me throw Max a bone and quote some Shakespeare: Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will…. Max?

“Woof.”

Good boy!