Friday, May 28, 2010

My Dog And I Are Like Two Stoners

I have always spoken to my dog like a real person. I ask him the same questions I ask my friends when I'm curious and I make fun of him the same way I do with my friends when they're being stupid. We also dick around like friends.

Or at least I convince myself that's what we're doing (sort of like Shaggy and Scooby). Actually, I do this with a lot of situations.

Our dog is Dr. Charles Winston Kilroy. We mostly call him "Charlie," but sometimes "Lucky Chuck." When we're dicking around, it's usually just "Chuck."

He and I went on a walk this afternoon and I feel comfortable thinking of us as two stoner characters from movies and television shows. I imagine Charlie saying things and I respond to them accordingly out loud. I'd rather be caught arguing with my dog than baby-talking it. One time when Chuck wanted to go into the quarry at night, I told him, "Are you fucking retarded? We're not going down there. You wanna be murdered by crazy people?"

Here are three moments on today's walk where Chuck felt like a person:

INSTANCE #1: Pranksters.
There's this one large old-fashioned Victorianesque house with big front yard that has a dog in it. Chuck and I usually go out at night and I'm always nervous this dog is going to blind-side us in the dark, so we stay away. But, in the daylight, for whatever inane reason, I feel like we'd be safer because the owner would intervene or I'd punch it in the face (who knows, right?).

Anyway, I let Charlie go up to the yard's fence, which is widely space iron bars. Charlie and the other dog stare at each other until the other dog starts barking and running back and forth. Chuck says nothing but runs along with the dog, almost just trying to figure out what they're doing. The dog bolts straight at Charlie. Charlie jumps back and starts slowly getting ready to run.

Then the dog realizes he's stuck. The dog comically looks down at its body and tries to pull itself out. The dog is legitimately stuck. Charlie looks up at me. I shrug and I say, "I don't know, man. This dog is fucking stupid though."

The stuck dog then looks over his shoulder and starts barking, as if to maybe get more of his crew or his owner.

"Ah! Run!" I yell to Charlie.

And then we both take off down the block, jumping through people's yards, dodging trees and hopping walls or bushes.

INSTANCE #2: Headache.
Once we catch our breath from the sprint, Charlie wanders over to a man fixing his classic car. Maybe Chuck has some questions for the guy. We don't have time though, so I motion to Charlie for us to go. But he's still curious, so he wonders up the driveway. He creeps up until a buff-sounding dog starts barking through the window and pushing on the screen. Charlie looks up at the window and starts running away while still staring at the window. As he's in mid-turn to a full sprint, Charlie runs straight into a basketball pole. He tries to regain his footing, trips over the leash and gets his bearrings again.

He looks up at me.

"How did you not see that pole?" I ask him.

INSTANCE #3: Chicks, Man. Chicks.
Charlie wanders ahead of me and into someone's yard. When I finally catch up, I find Charlie sniffing the feet of a woman in her early 30s.

"Sorry about that," I say, embarrassed of my dog's foot fetish.

"No, it's ok. He probably smells dog on me," she says smiling.

"Oh," I nod in understanding, trying to drag Charlie away, but Charlie's hesitant. His head shoots up as he stares at the woman's van. He slowly backs away, but when the van doors open, he sees a whole lot of feminine-looking dogs.

"Chuck, let's go," I say.

But Charlie only turns his head to look at me, then the woman and then the dogs. He stays on the lawn for a while before looking back at the woman, then the dogs and then me again.

"Come on," I say.

Charlie cocks his head, as if to say, "Why would we leave? There's a chick here for you and there's, like, four here for me. Why would we go anywhere else?"

"Listen, you dickhead, let's go. I'm hungry," I say quieter.

Charlie looks sorrowfully back, as I have to legitimately drag him off the lawn, the leash straining his neck. We finally make it off the property and by the next house he stares up at me as we walk side-by-side.

"Don't fucking judge me," I tell him.

On an unrelated note, I know my dog has no testicles, but I think he should get laid. I think he wouldn't seem so sad at night if he had a ladyfriend or something.

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