Patti Soldavini

The Schwindler

In weimaraners on 05/19/2011 at 9:43 pm

"I smell an EASY mark."

It occurred to me the other afternoon, when I took Olive out, that if I had to use mental telepathy to let someone know when I had to go out, or that I was hungry or thirsty, I’d probably shoot myself. Really, because on some level, that’s what barking is. It’s just a sound dogs use to tell their humans, “ARE YOU DEAF? I’D LIKE A CROWN RACK OF LAMB FOR DINNER. WITH MINT SAUCE. BY THE WAY, MY EARS ARE DIRTY, AND MY ANAL GLANDS NEED TO BE EXPRESSED.” And all we hear of course is: “WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO-WOO.” Which leads me down the following mental path. “YOU POOPED. YOU PEED. YOU ATE AND YOU DRANK. IT MUST MEAN THERE’S A TOY TRAPPED UNDER THE COUCH THAT YOU CAN’T REACH.” “Do you know what I’m going to get you for Christmas Olive?” I say. “Those reach extenders they sell to alter kockers in catalogs like Lillian Vernon and Miles Kimball.” This is all part of Olive’s strategy to divert my attention. She waits until I am on all fours with my head so far under the couch that I feel like a procotologist that’s been sucked up a whale’s behind. It’s very dark. At the moment my head reaches the point of no return, I hear her sprint past me like running legend Steve Prefontaine. By now I know what’s coming. I yank my head out from under the couch but not soon enough. She’s joyfully licking the last spoonful of Haagen Daz Five mint ice cream out of the bowl resting on the faux bronze-topped coffee table. As she watches me approach her, she musters all the coolness of James Bond as she cleanses her palate by sipping my iced tea. I’m always amazed at how delicately she manages this, neither knocking the glass over or walking away dribbling like a toothless toddler. There is nothing clumsy about this dog.

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