All these people saying their dog is cute...they probably don't even have a dog...and neither do I if somebody doesn't pike what I'm saying and wants to try ro make a terrible comeback.
@iluvwerewolves88 lolz, im so serious, what, she thinks that if shes not the ugliest than shes the cutest? lolz, neva, thats like chomper winning cutest dog AINT GONNA HAPPEN although all dogs are cute
This rumination begins with a phone call from my brother, but it’s really about domestic animals, dogs and cats mostly, and our changing mores about them: How they are now viewed as peers and family members rather than pets, how we’ve come to define ourselves as their guardians rather than their owners, whether our growing obsession with them is somehow a simulacrum for the complicated and messy human relationships that formerly dominated our lives, and whether apotheosizing them somehow minimizes our sensitivity to human suffering. But back to my brother. I got a phone call from him a couple of days ago. He is a person of a certain age who has had a colorful life. He served a stint in the Coast Guard, then 10 years as a cop, quitting the force after determining he neither liked nor respected his superiors; then he became a master trucker, driving triple trailers on the I-80 Reno to Salt Lake City run. Several years ago, he enrolled in college, took his BA in education and obtained a teaching credential. He now teaches grammar school kids in Phoenix’s poorest and toughest district. He is a highly skilled machinist whose work has included beautifully customized-as in chopped -Norton motorcycles. He has been married four times. He is all over the map politically. He is laconic, though given to occasional scabrous and amusing outbursts. He has a sense of humor that is Sahara-like in its dryness. If I had to describe him succinctly, I’d say he is an amalgam of Hank Hill and Dennis Hopper. He’s a pretty tough guy. I anticipated something dire. And when he said, “I have bad news,” I steeled myself. He’s also my only sibling, and our connection is deep. So when I got the call, and the usual ebullience was drained from his voice, I was anxious. He seems to take a perverse delight in neglecting his health; his diet is horrible, he’s overweight, and he struggles with high blood pressure and a variety of other metabolic issues. I anticipated something dire. And when he said, “I have bad news,” I steeled myself. “It’s Moose,” he said. “We’re going to have to put him down.” Relief washed over me. Moose was his English springer spaniel. Actually, he started off as my springer spaniel. I’d bought him as a pup, thinking he’d be a good, smaller alternative to a Labrador as a retriever. He was, in duck-hunting parlance, extremely “birdy,” and I’d trained him casually, so he performed pretty well in the field. But like all well-bred springers, Moose had a lot of energy. He needed rigorous daily exercise, and a lot of emotional input. I bought him at a particularly busy point in my life, and I felt guilty that I wasn’t able to give him all the attention he both required and deserved. So when my brother visited one day, and he and Moose practically soul-kissed out of mutual attraction, it occurred to me that I shouldn’t stand in the way of a budding relationship. When my brother left in his pick-up, Moose was bounding joyously around the cab. That was eight years ago. And whenever I talked with my brother on the phone, the conversation inevitably revolved around Moose. How he delighted in swimming laps all day in the pool during summer. His guilty demeanor when he peed in a corner of the kitchen. The way his flews quivered adorably when he anticipated a snack. The $10,000 required to surgically repair an arthritic shoulder. I screamed: $10,000? I accused my brother of treating Moose like the son he’d never had. He didn’t deny it. And his wife, he said, was just as besotted with the dog. Moose was the sun, and they were minor orbital bodies, basking in the beneficence of his life-affirming doggy vibe. So I commiserated with my brother as he mournfully described Moose’s moribund condition. I pointed out that all flesh is grass, that spaniel flesh is even “grassier” than our own, and that he had given Moose a lovely life, allowing him to live up to his full canine potential. It was time to let go and bid him a loving adieu. Chokingly, my brother agreed. And then he said, “Oh by the way,” and described tests he had just endured that pointed to a malignancy that could well prove fatal. (Final results are pending.) “So,” I said, “That’s the real story right? I mean, putting Moose down is sad, but what we’re really talking about are your medical tests, and that’s what has you worried. Because that’s what worries me.” “No,” he said, “I can deal with whatever they find. But I feel really bad about Moose.”
