A Vintage Whine

A Vintage Whine   George Davis         

  A Vintage Whine   George Davis         

  Some folks say I am uncouth, but since I don’t know what that means, I am going to assume it is the opposite of couth. That doesn’t really help because I don’t know what that means either. I only finished obedience school last June, and in school we didn’t learn English or American History. Instead we learned how to obey our masters, sit. Stay. Heel. You know, the usual commands from humans to show off what we have learned. 

  They drone on and on, talking in a baby’s voice. Why don’t they just say what they mean in tones more resonant? I don’t go for those whiny, sing-song utterances. They're pathetic. 

  “Here, Boy. Rollover, and play dead.” There he goes again showing off to those funny-looking people with the wrinkly noses and silly grins. 

  “Come on, Boy, roll over for me. I’ll give you a treat.” He’s holding a dog bone biscuit. I hate the taste of those things. You might as well eat a slipper. And, I’ve eaten a few of those in my time. “Give me a steak and I’ll roll all the way up the turnpike to Augusta.” 

  The visitors snapped their fingers and made clucking sounds with their tongues. The little girl with the strangers, whistles to me. I go to her. She looks like a kind person. I snuggle up to her, and she rubs my belly. She and I could get to be real friends. My owner decides I wouldn’t be a good fit for these folks. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I guess he’s having an off day. He usually rolls over, plays dead, and is very obedient. Hector, roll over.” If he calls me that name one more time, I’m going to bite him. I hate that name. It is so…so retro. It’s a name probably Uncle Fido would have liked had he lived to fifteen. And people say, it’s a dog’s life. Yeah, we live on an average, nine or ten years, twelve is considered elderly. We can’t play an instrument, sing a song, or be a baseball star. Point of fact. We are just somebody else’s companion. And if we show any signs of wanting to settle down, raise a family, our owners send us to the doctors to have an operation, one that takes away any desire to have pups. Then, we grow fat and listless instead of thin and playful.  

   “Now look what you’ve done; two more people who don’t want to take you to their home. You don’t do what you’re told. I’m losing patience with you, Hector.” I said, stop calling me, Hector. I hate that name. He doesn’t understand dog speak. Funny, I understand his language perfectly. My name is not Hector. It is, Simon. 

  It’s time. I think I’ll have some fun. I rolled over and played dead. “Why couldn’t you do that when those people were here?” 

  “I didn’t want to. Did it ever occur to you? I might want to stay here with you? I don’t want to go from one foster home to another.” 

  I used to love the sound of my owner’s voice when he called me. “Come on, Boy, it’s time to eat.” He sat down at the table and ate steak and potatoes with green beans. I don’t like green beans; they give me the runs. However, I do love a nice steak. He tosses down the trimmings; fat, gristle, and a tad amount of meat. It doesn’t matter. I swallow my food whole anyway.  

  “Here, Boy, here’s a nice bone for you. I got it at the supermarket yesterday.” He threw down the bone that looks as if it came from an elephant’s shin. I’ll be gnawing on this thing for weeks. It’s an awful way to get a meal. There isn’t enough meat on that bone to make a sandwich. But, we are expected to gnaw, and, gnaw I will.  

  Remember, when people say, ‘it’s a dog’s life,’ they are unaware of what we canines go through every single day. Up at dawn, go with our masters for a walk though the neighborhood, searching for a place to do our business. Our masters prefer we do that business on someone else’s property, hence, the long morning and evening strolls.

  When we return, we are fed a can of food that stinks and tastes like it had been dead for months. Then we are put in the kitchen while the living room is blocked by a folding gate. We have no room to run and play. What else is there to do except sleep, and sleep I do.

  To top it all off. We are expected to run to the door, wag our tails, and pretend we are glad to see our masters when they come home from work.

  Why don’t they have a ‘take your dog to work’ day? They have take your daughter to work.

  If I live to be fifteen, I will never know why humans act so silly. We, intelligent canines do everything we do without checking to see if it is socially acceptable. We love unconditionally.  We obey without question, and we can be trained to get your slippers if you are too lazy to get them yourself. 

  I guess, if I had my druthers. I would stay a dog. We are a happy lot. We don’t have good days and bad days. We don’t gossip, and we don’t hate. We love our masters and are ready to defend them against all enemies, domestic and foreign. You might say, we are your guardians, to keep you from making a fool of yourself.

Remember, dogs are a man's and a woman's best friend.

I would like to say one more thing. After I'm dead and gone, please don't bury me in the backyard next to that dead bird. I deserve better. And, if you put a marker on my grave that says, Hector. I will come back and haunt you.

  And now to answer your unasked question; we do cause a change in your household, and through all your faults and your incessant baby talk, we love you.