I use to shudder in disdain at the sight of people feigning over their pets. The image of a grown man or woman cooing to a furry creature would just send me. Consequently, I seemed to attract more of this kind of behavior. No matter where I’d be, someone would try to engage me in conversation with his or her animal. Usually, it was your typical human-animal small talk.
“Oh, Bosco is so excited to see you! Say ‘hi’ to Bosco!”
“Hi, Bosco.”
“Tell Bosco what you’re doing today!”
“Well, Bosco, I’m trying to work on an Excel spreadsheet, which is probably something you’d be very interested in.”
Sigh.
My college boyfriend’s family was mastered by three really big dogs. Their Golden Retriever, Tiki, elected to sleep with me in the bedroom with a waterbed that had a significant wave-producing motion. Everyone thought Tiki’s evening ritual was so cute, especially since she insisted on putting her snout on my shoulder. They said Tiki “cuddled” to help her fall asleep. I was petrified and couldn’t move for fear of waking her, not an easy feat when you’re sleeping in “The Perfect Storm.” Every time a wave hit, I grabbed a paw and prayed for daylight. I vowed never to become beholden to anything that attracted fleas.
This was before I met Honey. All bets were off when Santa brought our children a puppy, a puddle of crème and tan with big chocolate eyes looking at me as if to say, “C’mon, you know you can’t resist me.” She’s a Chi-Poo, a Chihuahua and poodle mix, or a “Chinoodle” as my friend says.
Honey acclimated quickly into the Mangan household—that is, we violate all the standard pet rules. She sleeps in our bed, eats scraps from the table, and hates to wear a collar. By the time she turned two, Honey became a mythic inspiration for us. We discovered she had an affinity for cheese; cheddar, goat, American processed—it didn’t matter. She was nuts about the stuff. When the kids piled into the car after school, they’d ask me about Honey. I obliged, concocting stories about our favorite Chinoodle.
During hurricane season, I told the children how Honey ended up on The Weather Channel, explaining that an increased production of cheese would actually decrease the chance of bad weather. Then there was the time Honey visited my college classroom and wrote on the chalkboard, “Make cheese, not war.” Oh, this was fun. Most afternoons still begin with the question, “Mama, what did Honey do today?” Some days, the best ones, they tell me a tale about Honey’s latest adventure.
Recently, Honey visited the vet for her annual check-up. I’m not sure she realizes she’s a dog, given our human-like indulgences. This only heightened the anxiety of being in a waiting room full of dogs who, apparently, shared Honey’s impression as they shivered uncontrollably in their owners’ laps. I began talking to the furry nervous nellies as if this would lessen the tension.
“Oh, Scooby, you are such a brave dog!”
“And, Shelly, you have a very pretty collar. Pink really is your color!”
I’ve definitely mastered the art of dog conversation. Cocktail parties still paralyze me with the thought of spontaneous and witty banter, but put Fido in front of me and I’m Oprah all of a sudden. Who’d of thunk?
One of my friends was lamenting about an acquaintance that takes her pet to monthly pet play dates. She asked me what I thought of this. I told her I’m probably just six months away from signing up Honey