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Things I Want to Ask My Dog - The New Yorker

http://www.newyorker.com/humor/daily-shouts/things-i-want-to-ask-my-dog

Things I Want to Ask My Dog
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Photograph
by ruthlessphoto.com/Getty

That time I came home and the garbage was all over the kitchen floor, and
you acted like you couldn’t remember how it happened because you “live in
the moment,” did you actually remember? Be honest.

You know all those times my friends laughed at something that you were
doing, like sitting upright on the sofa, or barking at the TV, and they’d
say, “Look, he thinks he’s a person.” You don’t really think you’re a
person, do you? Because that would be insane.

That Halloween I dressed you up like a sailor, was it humiliating? I
remember my brother saying that you were clearly embarrassed. But he says a
lot of things. Were you embarrassed?

Am I less authoritative when I’m naked?

Do you know you’re lucky? It’s important to me that you know. I’m going to
show you some pictures of street dogs in Mexico.

Do you remember that fedora my brother wore for a while? Now *that* was
embarrassing. I’d like to see him take care of a dog. He can’t even
remember if you’re a boy or a girl. Just because he had a poem published in
some pretentious journal doesn’t mean he’s got “insight.” Does it?

Remember the first evening Deborah came over, and I made spaghetti, and you
wandered over to the table to say hello, and she said, “I’m actually not a
big fan of animals near our food,” and you gave me this look, like,
“Seriously? This is the one you told your mother about?” At the time I
didn’t think much of it, but now I’m wondering: Were you trying to warn me?

Do you think I’d look good in a fedora?

That afternoon I went to Whole Foods to return the rotten mango and, while
I was gone, burglars smashed the French doors and stole my laptop, did you
even try to scare them off? I like to think you did. I like to think you
bared your teeth and went at them, but the truth is I came home to find you
napping with your rope toy in your mouth. Whatever happened, you have to
live with yourself.

Do I drink too much?

You know the time you were with me at that gas station, and I was a little
preoccupied, and, after buying a bottled water, I climbed into the driver’s
seat of someone else’s Prius, and sat you on the passenger seat, and then
the owner stuck his head in the window and said, “Yo, shithead,” and I
screamed, “Don’t hurt me”? Have you found yourself thinking less of me
since then?

Back to Deborah: that morning after she moved in, and we were reading the
Sunday paper in bed, and you walked over, and she said, “I’m actually not a
big fan of animals in the bedroom,” and you gave me another one of those
looks—that was another warning, right? Bigger question: Do you actually
have the ability to discern whether someone is right for me romantically?
Is that a thing that animals can do, like sensing an earthquake, or hearing
super-high-pitched noises? Is that why you repeatedly peed on Deborah’s car
tire? Or am I just shoehorning meaning into our exchanges, because it’s
comforting to believe that somewhere in the universe there are definitive
answers to things, that there’s a perfect, knowable truth, even if it’s
only a fleeting instinct in the mind of a dog? Do you remember the question?

When I sit down to play the piano and you leave the room before I even
begin, what’s that all about?

If I could make you understand that a dog’s lifespan is roughly one-seventh
of a human’s, would you nap less?

Those times you hang out on the sofa next to me, is it because you love me,
or are you worried I’ll suddenly notice you’re not contributing in any
practical way? Do you lack purpose? Would you be happier herding sheep on a
farm, or sniffing rolling suitcases at the airport? Did you know that my
brother just published a novel? He sent me a copy, signed, “Best wishes.”
What an asshole, am I right?

The night Deborah decided to break up with me—it all began with her
insisting I should move your sleeping basket to the garage, remember? She
said, “I’m actually not a big fan of the dog smell in this house.” And I
said, “I’m actually not a big fan of the expression ‘not a big fan,’ ” and
she gasped, and I glanced at you, and I could swear you were laughing. You
were, right?

Should I call Deborah?

Do you understand English?

Where are you going?

*Watch:* Marc Maron talks with Kelefa Sanneh about his relationship with
the comedian Louis C.K.

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Eric D. Schwerin
eschwerin@rosemontseneca.com

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