This is a picture of Buddy watching me workout this morning--proving once again that dogs are smarter than humans.

Dogs Will Eat Anything

Occasionally I give my dogs table scraps or other treats. One of my dogs, Tula, the Italian Greyhound, lives for treats, and she will eat all kinds of things: meat, veggies, potatoes, and she even tasted an apple core I once offered her. Now, I generally think of dogs as indiscriminant eaters, but Buddy, my Jack Russell Terrier, is actually quite finicky. I find this hard to believe in a dog that will troll the floor for any particle of edible matter, including the random dust bunny. Buddy also eats lizards; he prefers the head, feet, and tails, leaving the body for us to find. For goodness sakes, Buddy eats sticks.

But just try offering him eggs. Tula loves eggs, and prances around while I empty them into her dish. Buddy, stands by his dish as I spoon the eggs in, and then he looks up at me with a positively injured expression—as though I have just hit him. Then he checks his bowl again to be really sure that it is eggs after all. Then he looks over at Tula’s dish to make sure that she has also received eggs. Yes, she has.

Then he looks at me again. Then he looks at the eggs. Then he sighs. He really does, a big breathy, the world is such a disappointment, sigh.

Then he eats the eggs. Not because he’s hungry. Not because he wants them. Not because he loves me. He eats the eggs so Tula can’t.

He is a dog after all.

Yoga in a Menagerie

A few days ago I was sitting on my mat, between asanas (yoga poses—can you believe that the spell check does not recognize the word “asana?”), and my Jack Russell Terrier Buddy came to sit with me. He regards yoga as “our special time together.” That’s all well and good, but Buddy and I have plenty of special time together throughout the day, as let him in and out to bark, as I refill his food bowl that he has hurled against the back door, and especially when he’s crowding me out of bed at night and hogging the covers. So, we really don’t need more special time together, especially when I am trying to BREATHE.

In one of those desperate, thoughtless moments, I did it. I said, “Buddy, get on the couch.” Really. I told my filthy, shedding, white dog to get ON the couch. That must be a first.

What do you suppose Buddy did? He got on the couch. My husband suggested that we send him out for coffee and doughnuts, but we didn’t say it to Buddy.

We were afraid he might do it.

Thursday

It’s Thursday, the most glorious day of the week. It is a day like any other day, but better. Thursday is Trash Day. Buddy loves trash day. The song of the diesel powered, smog coughing behemoths echo through the neighborhood all day, starting as early as 6:30 am, in joyful disregard of the city ordinance for morning quiet.

Our house must be at the juncture of at least three different routes, because even though our trash is only picked up once, we can hear the bull elephant bellow of the trucks ringing through the neighborhood all day. Each time a truck starts its song, Buddy springs to action. He runs for the back door, skidding across the laminate flooring and hurls himself against the plate glass until someone lets him outside. He flies down the back steps and across the yard, a white streak, tiny feet barely skimming the ground. He barks. And barks. And barks. Sometimes he barks so much he gets hoarse. He barks some more.

This ritual is repeated several times on Trash Day. He runs back and forth along the fence, jumping and barking. He won’t stay outside all day where he can bark with reckless abandon, unhindered by human barriers. No, he has to come in after each salvo. My son I decided to count how many times we let him in and out on any given Trash Day.

So far we are up to four—it’s 7:30 am. It’s Thursday, Trash Day, the Most Glorious Day of the Week.

Buddy’s Schedule

After making his point by barking at the Motorcycle Guy around 8:00 am, twice if necessary, Buddy goes back to bed with my son. He gets up around 9:00 for the day, goes in and out to eat, use the facilities, lie in the sun, and get pats. For all of these activities he must be let out, and then in again. Though Buddy is a dog, he clearly thinks of himself as a human, and so must sit inside with the other humans, on the couch if possible.

The highlight of a normal day, a non-Trash Day, is the arrival of the postman. Buddy can hear the postman from several houses up. He races to the front door, from the backyard if necessary. Buddy can open the screen door (I wouldn’t mind so much if he’d just close it). He barks, frenzied barking, like we’re all in mortal danger. The evil postman has arrived bearing deadly mail. The postman comes everyday, and everyday Buddy must protect us against the known danger of Direct Mail advertising circulars. Everyday Buddy strives to save us from certain peril— and it works, everyday the postman leaves us unharmed.

Today, the postman just sighs and puts the mail in the box by the front door. He knows that Buddy is just the first dog on this street, and that Buddy’s barks announce his eminent arrival, and sure enough, the chorus of barking begins to cascade down the block. The postman once told me that if he can manage to get by without Buddy hearing him, a rare day indeed, that the other dogs are caught unaware, and many of them continue to nap on their doggie beds, and don’t even bother to bark. But Buddy’s vigilance reminds them that they too are supposed to be on guard against the evil postman.

Today, the Postman shakes his head while I reassure him that if Buddy did get out, he’d just jump on him and want pats; I am not sure about this; Buddy really hates the postman. Buddy loves everybody, but he really hates the postman. I can’t figure it out. It’s been the same postman for many years. I talk to the postman. The postman is friendly. We give a tip to the postman at Christmas. Buddy hates him. Buddy is a smart dog. Buddy is smarter than some people I know. If Buddy had opposable thumbs and could talk, he’d be human. Buddy hates the postman, and he barks at him everyday.

Buddy will bark several more times during the day, necessitating that we let him in and out so that he can keep his schedule. When there’s nothing to bark at, he will go outside and run around the yard barking, just hoping to drum up some business. That’s a normal day for Buddy, a day like any other day, unless it’s Thursday; Thursday is Trash Day.

The Motorcycle Guy

Our dog Buddy has a schedule. Aren’t all Jack Russell Terriers named Buddy? We got ours from the shelter—ready named, but I’ve asked around, and they’re all named Buddy. He gets up on normal days at about 8:00 am. This is because at 8:00 am the Motorcycle Guy starts his bike.

Buddy springs to action, leaps off the bed, and pounds on the back door until someone lets him outside. He flies down the back steps and bolts across the yard, a white streak, barely touching the ground. He barks. And barks. Hopefully, the Motorcycle Guy hasn’t forgotten something, because if he has, he turns off his bike and goes back inside. Ten minutes later, he starts his bike again and Buddy is back at the fence barking.

We are not really sure why the Motorcycle Guy sets him off. Don’t get me wrong, Buddy barks. He barks at the parrots in the yard (yes, we have a flock of wild parrots that roost in my neighbor’s tree). He barks at the postman. He barks at people who walk by on the sidewalk, especially if they have dogs. He barks at me. Buddy barks.

But he has a special bark for the Motorcycle Guy, a special vehemence that he saves for the Motorcycle Guy. I think he hates motorcycles--perhaps it is the sound they make. Perhaps the Motorcycle Guy is Buddy’s alarm clock; after all, it is the first bark of the day. My son disagrees; he has a theory. My son thinks that in a past life Buddy too was a Motorcycle Guy. He thinks that Buddy misses the lifestyle, the freedom of the open road, the wind in his hair, the good gas mileage. My son thinks that Buddy just wants to go for a ride.

Tomorrow's blog: Italian Restaurant Decor