My dog is my copilot. I will not mention his name for fear of deportation proceedings. He is 100 human years old. Even at his advanced age, he is a curious fellow. He has the tail of a German Shepard, the ears of a Lab, and a Beagle’s nose.
His snout animates every intention. It investigates leaf piles and bush bases. It frequently lands, despite my urgings to the contrary, between the legs of visitors. Even in this time of American ire, people are polite, insisting a dog nose pushed into their privates is not only customary, but preferred. I suspect the dog intuits these invitations, so with a wag and a thrust, he lands in those forbidden places joyfully.
The intensity and insanity of today’s news cycle bring incessant questions from the dog. Most recently, he has been concerned about the supply chain of his gourmet, five-dollar-a-day refrigerated food. Is it made in Canada or Mexico? Do the ingredients arrive in a shipping container from China? Will present realities make the chow too expensive for my meager government pension, which may or may not arrive in my bank account?
To allay his fears about basic sustenance and prohibit deep depression from the prospect of returning to a kibble-powered existence, I did a deep dive into Google. Thankfully, his food brand is “proudly made in the USA.” There is a dark side to the product, however. One of the plants that manufactures the tasty meal uses woke wind power to encourage a zero-waste landfill policy. The dog and I understand that today it is more politically correct to fill our green spaces with as much plastic, fast food containers and coal slag as possible.
To shield him from Toxic Press Syndrome, I encourage the dog not to watch too much news, regardless of its political persuasion. Still, his questions persist from talking to neighbors—the Cynical Dachshund, the Five Huskies of the Apocalypse attached to two struggling owners’ waistbands, the Sniffling Shih Tzu and the Feists who talk a lot without saying anything. You know the breed.
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Dog brings their questions back to me. It gives him status among his fur-bearing colleagues to be the Wise Old Dog who returns answers from the Human Oracle. Many inquiries are nonsensical. For example, “With all the rain we have had lately, have we considered getting rid of our family’s water table?” Or (this one from a traveling Bichon who is an Emotional Support Companion), “What is the purpose of the little curtain between first class and economy on a commuter jet?” My favorite, “Are the Cinnamon Toast Crunch characters a rock band?”
These and myriad other dog-life questions are enigmatic. Once, when I took Dog on a joy ride to Lexington in my truck named Latrell because it is little and red, we were sliding off Nicholasville Road onto New Circle when Dog asked from his perch in the jump seat, “Why are these merge lanes so short?” Have you ever tried to explain wanton traffic engineering to a dog? If you have had success, please report.
I hesitate to load the 90-pound canine into my truck anymore. Thanks to hemp chews, his joints still work, although haltingly. He becomes a puppy again on a truck ride to the veterinarian because it portends a happy panorama of smells. Dog is fine until the wretched worm-check transforms him from Panting Jekyll to Snapping Hyde. On the way home, there is always an obligatory gas station stop to let Dog watch pump television infomercials. He asks, “Do these things work?” I reply, “I have no idea.”
Last week, one of the neighborhood groundhogs, who usually is too busy munching dandelions to visit, asked Dog a provocative question: “Which is longer, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge or the Rainbow Bridge?” When Dog brought me that one, with big brown eyes and ears at attention, waiting to lick out my cereal bowl, I didn’t have the heart to answer.
