What Old Dogs Know

Is it…is it…yes! A bone! A real one, not that tough greasy pig’s ear I gagged on the other day, having accepted it against my better judgment because I was tired of the brown pebbles rattling around in that hard shiny bowl like a beggar’s coins. But this is a proper bone, from a real moo-er. It smells like grass and sunshine and milk, and it has jagged edges to gnaw, crumbly gray marrow strong as wolf’s scent, pearly-smooth round knobs, and clinging bits of meat still juicy enough to lick. Heaven. I must pause to look up at them adoringly, pant a little gratitude.

Okay, enough of that. I bow, then collapse into a sphinx so I can rest while I work. They never rest while they work. They thrum and buzz and rant, so much agita you would think they were at the vet. Nobody comes at them with a long needle; nothing truly bad ever seems to happen. Yet the next morning they start all over again.

Need a different angle, it’s getting slippery and—whoa, almost lost my grip. Saved the bone but my bottom fell off the mat. Mortifying. Can I get back up there? Three inches used to be nothing. Now when I try to shift or wag, even dare a jump, my legs go stiff and my hips ache. I feel like an old dog. Well, I am an old dog. But right now I am a very happy old dog. The window is open—he put carrot parings in the compost, and are those eggshells? Definitely eggshells. That blasted rabbit must have run through the yard a few hours ago. The scent stream is fading, but it swirls through his usual loop, and he is the only one that braves the patio. Damned squirrels dance on the roof instead. Have a little decorum, for God’s sake.

When I say God, I mean my God, you know. No fear, no punishments. Heart of a German shepherd, spirit of a Borzoi. But it is easier to use their words; they have so many of them. The syllables spill fast, and I have to concentrate to catch the ones that matter, pluck them out of the blur and babble. Bone. Pizza. Park. Cookie. Beddy-bye. The way they talk to me, you would think I was five years old and not, by their math, ninety-five. I am told this is their love language and I must forgive it. All I know is that, though we are a diverse cross-species little pack, I have to take all my cues from their language. Or rather, from his. I have heard her thinking, and she uses entirely different words and inflections. As leader, he passes muster—nice deep voice, tall enough, locks up at night. But the language thing pisses me off.

Piss is a comfort: sprinkling it wherever I like, signing the world as though I made it. This is part of my language, and it makes them nervous. Still, they go to great lengths to accommodate; I suspect they are afraid of my piss. Or perhaps their own—hence the locked doors and furtive cleanings? Speaking of which, I do believe the time has come. I had best saunter over to the door. No point bothering with the old prance. They used to love my spins—twelve times in a row, fast as a skateboard down a hill. They laughed and clapped and showed their friends. I just wanted the damned treat.

Food is what matters, you know. They clutter up the world with all those words, and they stop what they’re doing every time something beeps. Then they chatter with little hard silver bones held up to their faces or stare at that shimmery garble on the box face and tap the long gray rectangle with their fingers. God, I wish I had fingers. I could scrape this marrow out so much faster. The rest of the opposable thumb stuff, they can keep. AI and cybersurgery and quantum mechanics, and they still have not figured out the world or learned how to stay sane. Let alone how to play, be loyal, stay curious and alert, and wake up happy.

I have to go outside. How can they not know that by now? Three times, I have looked up at them. Drama is called for. I heave myself up, wobble a little, steady myself, take a few gingerly steps so they feel sorry for me. Head blindly for the door. There, that has her attention. She is following, saying in her gooiest voice, “Outsidey, sweetheart?” Why, yes. I intend to defecate.

Even that is a little tricky these days. But hey—look at those dachshunds in the little wheelie carts, and that dog of indeterminate origin at the park who has that huge growth bulging under his neck like somebody stuffed a beanbag in front of his throat. Our species is undeterred by vanity. I suspect we heal better because of it. We just do as much as we can, and if something goes awry, freeze and rest until we can start again.

Back now, for more of that heavenly bo—hey! Where did it go? I left it right here on my mat. See, the stupid towel reeks of moo-er. They have stolen the gift! Did they hide it? Sadistic bastards. They hide their own treats, too—they have a “lockbox.” What I cannot figure out, after years of puzzling and searching, is where they hide their feelings. Or why they hide so many. Their genius, I have realized, lies in complicating…well, anything.

Under the couch, maybe? I catch a whiff…. No, that’s just the path it cut through the air when she carried it over. Give. Me. Back. My. Bone. She catches my glare and speaks softly, reasonably. What does she mean she put it in the refrigerator for later? Do these people not know that now is now is now is now? There will never be anything but now. And now is when I want my bone.

I lie down to wait, the daily penance of the good dog. All that chewing did make me a little sleepy. A deep scrunch, to get away from that fuzzy towel all sticky with lovely moo-er. There. Nice soft memory foam. They got the suede cover, too. I shall lie here for a bit…until the bone…comes…ba—

Nodded off, there. No shame in it. Their lives should be so simple. They fuss at each other about growing old and never see how, in the now, life becomes easy and sweet. As long as you can get back up on your mat and nobody steals your bone, you are safe. You can stop spinning. No need to learn more tricks. No need to perform at all. You have been loved, sometimes even understood. And that is enough.

Read more by Jeannette Cooperman here.