Hello, my name is Scott, and I’m that dog guy.
At some point, you just have to accept it. I see miracles in any change in Teddy and Esme’s behavior, ones that I cannot help but anthropomorphize. So give me the beagle nose, or dachshund ears, or whatever equally ridiculous mask we make dogs wear. For what could be goofier than chronicling the way hounds play?
Esme suffers it gladly; at least it’s something to fetch, even if it is barelybigenough to lift and squirts out a dozen times before she manages, like Sisyphus, the return. Teddy simply loves it. The way it tastes, smells, stands politically, I dunno. But he’s desperate to gnaw it, like my wallet.
One afternoon, Ted really had is Kong jones on. Took it to the yard first thing, plopped it between his forepaws. Homey was gonna chew that mother.
I didn’t want to ruin the old guy’s rare exhibition of possessiveness. He hadn’t displayed that in years. Still, I didn’t want to to penalize Esme for her brother’s will. I took the tennis ball, the fuzzy, chewable orb that is to her like catnip to a tabby, and chucked it across the yard. She brought it back rocketquick. ‘Ok,’ I thought to myself as I tossed it again, ‘They’ll both have their way.’
But then nothing. Esme didn’t return. A minute later, she emerged at the edge of the yard, baseball Kong, unwieldy and smelling like Ted’s slobber, balanced precariously in her maw. Stunned, I throw it, as Teddy, probably uncertain why it was taken from him in the first place, gallops dopily behind.
Was this Esme putting a value on the Kong because Ted had it? Because I preferred to throw it? Because she hated her dumbass brother? Like I said, I admit to being That Dog Guy, so I get to assume the smartest: That she is exercising revenge for Teddy’s youthful, out-of-reach torture in years bygone.
Because you can’t deny: Payback is a bitch.