Y'all Come Sit a Spell

This morning, WordPress asked me a question.
If your pet could talk, what would be the first thing it says?
I looked at Rowdy.
Rowdy looked at me

There is no if.

The only question in this house is: Are you listening?

Rowdy talks. He has always talked. He talks when he wants something. He talks when he thinks I should be doing something. He talks when I am doing something incorrectly. He has opinions, complaints, requests, rebuttals, and occasionally what I can only assume is commentary on my general performance.

He especially likes to talk when I’m on the phone.

Apparently, hearing me engaged in conversation with someone who isn’t him reminds Rowdy that he, too, has something to contribute.

And before anyone asks, no. He is not a Husky.

His name is Rowdy, though, and he takes that as a personal challenge.

I didn’t name him. He came with the name.

Actually, Rowdy came with a whole backstory.

My brother originally got him for my nephew. My nephew didn’t want him. My sister had him for a while. And then, in early 2020, Rowdy came to live with me.

That makes it sound much more orderly than it probably was.

The important part is that eventually, Rowdy got here.

And, well…

He’s just the best.

Not the best-behaved. Let’s not get carried away.

The best.

Over the years, Rowdy and I have developed a language that requires absolutely no English on his part. There are sounds. There are looks. There are very specific expressions. There is positioning. There is staring. There is the occasional escalation when I have clearly failed to understand the first communication.

And I know what they mean.

That’s the part that’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived with a dog long enough to become fluent in that particular dog.

I don’t understand dogs.

I understand Rowdy.

Rowdy doesn’t begin by barking. Barking would be rude.

He starts with the rumbles.

They’re soft at first, a general airing of the grievance. He’s brought a matter to my attention and, presumably, expects management to address it.

If management fails to respond appropriately, we move to the aroos.

The aroos are not a suggestion. By this point, Rowdy has explained himself perfectly clearly and cannot understand why corrective action has not been taken.

Only if I continue to ignore him does he bark.

A bark is escalation. A bark means all previous attempts at diplomacy have failed and Rowdy would now like to speak to a supervisor.

Unfortunately for Rowdy, I am the supervisor.

This disappoints him regularly.

Rowdy also knows what time it is.

I don’t mean he recognizes that morning follows nighttime or that dinner generally happens sometime after afternoon. Rowdy knows when it is time for breakfast and when it is time for dinner.

And if I have somehow failed to notice the hour, he is happy to bring the matter to my attention.

Politely, at first.

There will be a rumble.

I may choose to pretend I don’t understand the rumble.

This is foolish, because we both know perfectly well that I understand the rumble.

Then comes the aroo.

Ma’am. I believe you will find that dinner is late.

Continue ignoring him and eventually we arrive at the bark, which is essentially Rowdy filing a formal complaint with management.

He also asks to go to daycare.

Not because he needs daycare. Because his friends are there.

Rowdy has a social life.

He knows the place. He knows what happens there. And sometimes he would like me to stop whatever nonsense I have planned for the day and take him to see his friends.

He especially likes to talk when I’m on the phone.

And I don’t mean he makes noise because I’m paying attention to someone else. Rowdy understands perfectly well what a phone is. There is a person in there, I am talking to that person, and he sees absolutely no reason he should be excluded from the conversation.

He will aroo while I’m talking until I put the phone on speaker.

He particularly likes talking to my mom and my sister.

Once they’re on speaker, he listens. He responds. He participates.

This is not separation anxiety.

This is a conference call.

Rowdy also pouts.

He ignores me when I’ve displeased him. Deliberately. Demonstratively. There is a significant difference between a dog who happens not to be paying attention to you and a dog who wants you to know that he has heard you and has elected not to respond.

Rowdy has mastered the latter.

His entire body can communicate disappointment. His face can communicate disgust. He can lie three feet away from me and somehow make the distance feel personal.

Again, I return to the WordPress question:

If your pet could talk…

What exactly do you people think talking is?

So when WordPress asks me what Rowdy would say if he could talk, I don’t have to imagine an answer.

I already know.

Breakfast.

Dinner.

I would like to see my friends.

Put Grandma on speaker.

You’re ignoring me.

I know you heard me.

And, eventually:

AROO.