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Charlie Hatton
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My Dog, the Bonehead

My dog is an idiot.

I suppose all dogs are idiots, in their own slobbery way — and to be fair, my dog’s generally one of the least lamebrained canines I know. But being the Queen of the Douchebags doesn’t make you a genius; it makes you a douchebag with a tiara, and a pretty good parking spot. My dog is that douchebag.

Lately, she’s taken to ‘hiding’ bones. This is patently ridiculous for two reasons: first, what’s ‘hidden’ to a mushbrained mutt like her is merely ‘behind the couch’ to the six-foot-tall bipeds living in the house. Similarly, ‘almost inaccessible behind the radiator’ to her is only ‘pain in the ass to retrieve’, for those of us who’ve managed to sprout opposable thumbs.

“The difference between a ‘shitpile of bones’ strewn through the house and ‘almost as many’ is not easily discernable to the naked eye.”

And we always end up retrieving those damned things, because while the dog is quite adept (for a mutt) at hiding, she’s not so good at the finding that you’d think would naturally follow.And if you’ve ever had a bone hidden hehind your radiator, then you’ll know — as the tantalizing delicate aromas of dog drool and dead animal carcass waft through your living room — that it’s best not to leave it there. And so, our dance with the douchebag dog goes on.

The radiator bones aren’t the worst, though. Sure, you might suffer second-degree burns on your arms while fishing the things out, but what’s a little blistered skin between friends? I much prefer that to the bones she drags outside through the doggie door.

Most of the time, we don’t even realize she’s taken one of her toys for an ‘excursion’ outside. The difference between a ‘shitpile of bones’ strewn through the house and ‘almost as many’ is not easily discernable to the naked eye. We only find out that she’s keeping a cache out back when, weeks of rain and muck and filth later, she drags the thing back inside the house.

Naturally, like any triumphant archaeologist, she has to parade her find around the house. Never mind the mud and leaves and bugs she might trail across the floor — a nasty fetid bone find in the back yard is Big News™! And we humans should be just as excited about it.

We are, of course. Just in not quite the same way. And the bitter irony of these weathered bones is — the dog’s not really that excited herself. Once she gets over the initial glee — ‘I found a bone! I FOUND A BONE!!‘ — she realizes the bones don’t taste nearly as good as the dozen other bones she hasn’t trotted into the elements, and loses interest.

Soon after, the filthy bone disappears again. Three weeks later, we see it, in even worse shape now, in the dog’s mouth as she takes a victory lap with it through the kitchen. Then it’s dropped and forgotten again. Then hidden, caked with new filth, and dragged across the carpet for a while. The best we can hope for is to clean the thing up, hide it behind a radiator somewhere, and hope she can’t get to the stupid thing. Somehow, though, she always seems to find the bones she doesn’t hide herself. I think she’s toying with us.

The other reason ‘hiding’ bones is cockeyed, even for a canine, is that we have never, in all our time together, taken a bone away from the dog. In fact, more often than not, we’re the ones giving her the bone in the first place.

(Even when we’re not — like if someone buys the pooch a present — she thinks it came from us. I mean, we explain it to her, very patiently, before we give her the new treat.

This came from my parents! My pa-rents. Paaaaarents.

I don’t think she gets it, though. We even used to show her the receipts, to drive the message home. She eats those. It’s like an appetizer to her. So we gave up, and take all the credit now. Much easier.)

So who is she ‘hiding’ bones from, then? Us? The neighbors? An imaginary pack of pilfering pooches she’s dreamed up? I have no idea. All I know is, if I step in another pile of sloppy bone dirt, or have to dive under another searing-hot radiator for a bone again, I may hide one of the damned dog’s bones myself for a while. One of the bones attached to her, that is.Wonder how long it’d take her to find that?

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One Response to “My Dog, the Bonehead”

  1. Robert says:

    The mutts are smarter than you think … making you spend time on the bones is how they keep you trained for all the other dog related chores.

    Come on … think about it. What’s dog spelled backwards?

    Just wait until your canine master discovers the comical dance you will perform when they hide a bone fragment in your shoe. You know … down in the toe. They always know when you are going to be in a hurry and jam your foot in … they watch you all the time and know your schedule better than you do.

    The empty-headed stare and perpetually moronic happy mood are a clever ruse … don’t trust the cur, it’s waiting for the most opportune time to latch on to your nutsack and then give you the big puppy, I was just playin’ stare. But you know those insidious bastards are laughing at you behind those big, brown eyes.

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