Esme taught Teddy how to fetch this week.

If there were a god, I’d swear to her. So I’ll swear on my father’s writings, as true a thing as ever was.

And in that spirit, I will admit: It was a pseudo-fetch.

I was finishing our Morning Ritual. On vertical days, we stir together. I take my meds, give Teddy his. Then we head to the backyard, where we fetch from the spa. Esme chases the Kong, dad shakes the coma cobwebs and Teddy scratches his ass on the ivy wall (he’s etched divots and ruts and bald spots into it, so it looks like a doomed comb-over). When I call “toy!” Esme brings it to spa’s edge, so I can toss it into the tub for future fetches.

On this morning, though, as I called out, Teddy came to the stairs. With the ball. In his mouth. Sure, I had to wrench it from him his jaws (the concept is still a bit lofty), but this was a miracle on scale with the loaves and the fishes. He must have watched Esme until osmosis created a muscle memory.

I call it muscle memory because I’m hesitant to say he learned anything. Empirically, his IQ still likely hovers around that of a learning-impaired doorknob. Witness what he did during the breakfast that followed.

Because he gets overexcited by the notion of food, Teddy’s epilepsy has worsened around mealtime, forcing me to break routine and feed them outside. Teddy still gets overexcited. But he also exhausts himself in the new routine, which seems to calm him some.

The new routine simply calls for them to dine outside. But when Teddy hears the clatter of bowls, he runs around the house to the dog door, which I close as I fix the food.

Whunk. Teddy’s head regularly, dully thumps the door. Two dozen times, at least, he’s rapped his noggin in attempted entry, like that kid from the Midvale School for the Gifted in The Far Side.

Teddy will study me as I fix the food. If I step from his sight (say, to get the food), he’ll sprint to the back door. When he sees I’m not there, he’ll sprint back to the dog door, which surely must be open now. Whunk. He’s undaunted in his bloodhound-ery, sprinting and panting and whunking while Esme waits patiently by the back door, where the food always arrives.

Theodore Ruxpin Bowles: I THINK HE’S GOING TO GET FOOD!
Esme Beyonce Bowles: Yeah, it’s time for breakfast. Actually, he’s late.
TRB: I HEARD BOWLS!!
EBB: That’s where the food goes.
TRB (voice trailing): I’M GOING AROUND TO THE SIDE, IN CASE HE COMES OUT THE DOG DOOR! SIGNAL IF YOU HEAR ANYTHING!!
EBB: No.
TRB: IT IS!!! IT IS FOOD!! AND I THINK IT’S….DOG FOOD!! HE’S GETTING DOG FOOD!!!
EBB: (sigh)
TRB: WAIT, I DON’T SEE HIM! HE’S GONE! I’M COMING AROUND IN CASE YOU NEED BACKUP!!! ROGER!! ROGER!! YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO SAY ROGER BACK!!!
EBB: One night, I will smother you in your sleep.
TRB: IS HE HERE?? WHAT THE…? WHERE DID HE…??? WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY ROGER BACK?! I’M HEADED BACK AROUND!!! NEXT TIME SAY ROGER!!!
Whunk.
TRB: DON’T PANIC, SIS!! I FOUND HIM!! AND HE SEEMS TO BE MAKING SOMETHING…COMING BACK YOUR WAY!!!! ROGER!!!!

Loaves and fishes.