Canine Mind Tricks

My dog reads my mind.

Butchie is a yellow lab with an extensive vocabulary. There are over 100 words and phrases that he responds to. Especially words that relate to his favorite foods, like ice cream, and French fries, and pizza. But that’s not the part that really gets me. I know my mutt is smart.

There’s also the little clock in his brain, which tells him that it’s time to take Mandy to school. He’s waiting at the front door at 7:15 every morning, even on school vacation days. But not on the weekends. Never on weekends. But that’s not the part that gets me either.

The thing that really gets me is when he picks up on my thoughts. How does Butchie know I’m considering taking him out on the leash when I haven’t even summoned the ability to get my ass off the couch yet? He just stands there looking at me with those pleading eyes, wagging his tail hopefully. And it’s not like we go for a walk every day. Most days I just let him out the back door to sniff around the property. Walking on the leash is not something that he can predict.

It’s as if I can’t even entertain the thought of walking him, or taking him for a ride in the car, or getting us some ice cream unless I’m planning on following through. Because he sure knows how to work the puppy-dog eyes, and he’ll stare at me intently until I finally do it.

The other thing that gets me is when the dogs communicate with each other.

When I got married 2 years ago, Butchie got a stepbrother: a cockapoo named Scruffy.

One night we were awakened by the sound of scratching. It was Scruffy, pawing at our bedroom door to wake us up. Since he never does this, generally sleeping downstairs in the living room with Butchie, we figured he must really have to lift a leg. No one really appreciates his frequent offerings of dog pee on the hardwood floors. So this was something worth attending to.

But when we got up to let him out, there was Butchie waiting at the bottom of the staircase, looking up helplessly and panting louder than Fat Albert on a treadmill. Butchie has arthritis and cannot climb the stairs to the bedrooms. HE was the one who had the midnight emergency.

Scruffy was just the messenger. He went back to sleep.

So did Scruffy read Butchie’s mind? It’s possible of course that he simply understood Butchie’s pacing by the front door as a cry for help and did what any good brother would do. Or maybe Butch told him to go upstairs and get us.

That’s it! What if Butchie is actually planting ideas in my head? What if HE’s the one who wanted a walk, or the ride in the car, or a bowl of ice cream, and he planted the seeds in my brain??

That might explain why I keep ordering pizza.