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Conversations With My Dog

Conversations With My Dog


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Published by Steve U
This is a First (rough) Draft. A newer version of this story has been revised, rewritten, updated and is in my book on Amazon, "Cigars with Dog - Conversations and Tall Tails". First in a series. After a day of work, what could be better than talking it over with man's best friend, over a cigar in the evening breeze? See the collection that contains all!
This is a First (rough) Draft. A newer version of this story has been revised, rewritten, updated and is in my book on Amazon, "Cigars with Dog - Conversations and Tall Tails". First in a series. After a day of work, what could be better than talking it over with man's best friend, over a cigar in the evening breeze? See the collection that contains all!

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Published by: Steve U on Sep 17, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Conversations with my Dog The Jotter, 9-16-2010

I have become entrenched in a couple of routines that are becoming common. One of these is fortunate, and one not so happy. Coming home from work late in the afternoon, after opening the door and glancing at the fish tank, I sometimes step over the barrier that holds the three dogs in the kitchen, and while my eyes are distracted with the movement of the dogs in the kitchen as they excitedly dart under and away from my descending feet, the routine sometimes starts. I step in dog pee, wipe up dog pee, feed the things that make dog pee, and then make sure they have water in order to make more dog pee. There’s a cycle in here I am probably not comprehending, but to do otherwise seems wrong. However, I then put my hands on my hips in a disapproving alpha disciplinarian stance which I don't think is working with one of the damn aforementioned peemachines. “Which one of you did this?!” In seconds, they all point to each other in response. Well, the two females do. The old male dog, however, has a different response. He points at me, with a barely hidden grin, like I'm gonna buy it. “I went at work, dufus.” The old dog shrugs his brown dappled dachshund shoulders. I shake my head. “I don’t know why you keep trying to blame me. It stopped being funny last month.” I open the sliding glass door so all the dogs can get to the great outdoors. A nice, fresh breeze and the sound of birds rushes in as the two female dogs rush out. The male dachshund, however, is taking his time, as it to prove his point. “You see? I can hold it a long time…especially if that were winter out there. No going out there in that.” 1

As the old male finally goes out, he looks at me. “Anyhow, blaming you, it’s tradition. Dogs are all about tradition. And repetition. Can’t help it. I have a tiny brain, as you often point out to your friends.” I nod. He calls out over his shoulders, “Meet you on the porch in ten minutes?” I nod again, and he goes down the steps. As the sound of barking escalates outside, I open the refrigerator and grab a beer for me, and from the kitchen counter grab two cigars and a lighter. Opening the door I step out into the fresh air, choose the chair on the left side of the porch to sit down in, and take off my shoes. In a couple of minutes, the old male is on the porch next to me, and after a couple of false-start jumps, finally gets the momentum going enough to leap into the chair next to me. I hand him a cigar and hold the lighter for him, then light my own cigar. He pulls a deep draught of rolled tobacco smoke into his lungs, and blows it out, the billowing grey rolling and expanding away from his snout. Holding the cigar in his right paw he examines it as it slowly sends a tendril of smoke into the air. He looks at me across the arm of his chair. “Rough day at work?” “Aren’t they all?” I enjoy the cigar for a bit, before continuing. “The boss can make some crazy demands. Apparently writing something to specifications…well, she has to make changes. No matter what. It gets old.” Dog looked at me, the cigar hanging out of the left side of his snout, smoke trilling upwards. “They have to piddle on it.” My eyebrows rise. “Huh?” Dog grabbed the cigar, holding it in his left paw, and beginning to wave it about as he made his point, his weight shifting to his other side. “Well, I had a military dog friend once tell me that all higher ups, to prove their worth, have to make a change to documents that their underlings write. Justifies their position in the food chain, you know? So you should put in a small error early on, in something that doesn’t matter, let the boss piddle on it and hand it back all proud that they have shown their superior intellect.” He sucked on the cigar, his doggie eyebrow things raised, waiting for my response. I snort. “You may have a point. You certainly are an expert in piddle, after all.” “THAT,” retorted Dog, “was a low blow. It’s that new female you coop me up with. Like all females, she can’t hold a pee more than 4 or 5 hours. Starts this dance, which gets her too excited and she lets go. Terrible, if you ask me.” ”I agree, she shouldn’t pee in the kitchen.” ”No,” interjected Dog. “I mean it’s terrible you coop me up in that room with her. Yap


yap yap at any noise. It’s all I can do to bury my head under that towel you think suffices for comfort, and hope that gives me some peace.” He jerked his head towards a butterfly, suppressing an urge to leap, before looking back at me. “Oh she’s not that bad.” I sip my beer, enjoying the sun on my face, my muscles, enjoying the relaxation of sun and beer and conversation. “Serious..I’ve seen how you look at her sometimes.” ”Fine! I do like watching her tail wag. Cute that. But still! I’ve given you 10 years of that loyal man’s-best-friend companionship shit. You could let me roam the house while you are gone, leaving her in the kitchen. Behind that barrier that seems like the wall in Berlin.” I shook my head. “Once a week?” “And find my sandals have become your latest chew toy? Or have you chew the zipper out of a pair of shorts? How DID you get at them, by the way?” I tipped back my beer, swallowed, and looked at him. “Oh that. You think you’re the only one who can stand on his hind legs around here? Maybe if you pushed the drawer shut like your wife asks you to, that wouldn’t have happened. I was merely making a point for her.” He nodded, then cigar smoke was pulled into his mouth, then exhaled. “Filthy habit, this smoking.” “Ah, but it’s a bond between us, to settle down after a day of hard work. Don’t you think it increases our bond, Dog?” “Do cats act like they own the world? Of course the cigar is the perfect bond between friends, on a porch, as the sun goes down. You could, of course, pour me a bit of that beer.” I nodded, grabbed a water dish and dumped that out, and poured a bit of the good stuff for him, before setting it down on the porch. Dog jumped down, and holding the cigar in his left hand, lapped up a small amount of beer. Licking his lips, he got back up on the chair. “Dog,” I asked, when he was re-settled. “Do you really just sleep all day?” ”Do you see me mailing away a novel I write all day? Do you see a track worn in the floor of the kitchen from me jogging around all day to keep in shape for that female? It’s a life you ought to try, sleeping a bit more. You know, you don’t get enough sleep.” Dog looked at me, to make sure I heard him, concern in his eyes, ears limp. “Just sayin’.”


“Well, I try as best I can. Someone has to provide the money for all that dog food you vacuum up.” I nod at him, expecting a thank you. “That’s another thing I been meaning to tell you. I hope you don’t pay money for that crap you pour in my food dish. You could at least put some ketchup on it or something.” Shaking my head, “That stuff’s good for you.” ”Asparagus is good for you and I don’t see you eating it.” “Whatever, Dog. When you make the money, you can enjoy a few perks.” We sat a bit more, listening to the wind in the leaves of the trees, the birds, and (in Dog’s case) car doors shutting or odd noises he picked up on the wind. Eventually the sun set, and I scratched him behind his ears. “Dog, it’s always a good time.” Yawning, Dog stuck the last of the cigar in his mouth, clamping down tight, and jumping down from the chair. “Back at ya, Master. You mind if I lay down a bit? All that jawflappin’ tuckered me out.” With that he lay down. I took the cigar from him to put it out properly, and went inside the house, ready for the evening.


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