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.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY RAFAEL!
To my dear dear nephew,
You are delightfully too young to realize it, but one day you will be delightfully old enough to remember the Olden Days.
One day, when you are ancient like me, a boy who is new like you will ask when you were born. And you’ll say “2010.” And his eyes will widen. He may whistle. And he will say “Wow, you don’t look old.”
And you can smile, and thank him (you have always been gorgeous, and will hear that often). And you can tell him this about the year of your birth:
- The iPad was invented.
- J.D. Salinger died.
- The New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl (though it coulda been Indy).
- The average house cost $268,000.
- A gallon of gas cost $2.73, bread was $2.49 a loaf and a pound of potatoes cost an average of 52 cents.
But that won’t really tell him what the Olden Days were like. That wasn’t really life in The Tens (use that term, just to blow his mind). To do that, you can tell him — as can all generations to the ones that follow — this:
“The Olden Days were wondrous, full of hugs and kisses, dancing and playing, smiles and laughter (so much laughter!).
“Why, in the Olden Days, a boy could turn six and lose count of all the creatures who loved him, thought of him, big and small.
“The Olden Days were sparkly, golden days.
— uncle scott and the Hounds of Love