Bruce Cameron

Aug 23, 20120

The Top Dogs

W. BRUCE CAMERON

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2007.

When I die, I want to be reincarnated as one of my mother’s dogs.

It was hard for my parents when their three kids grew up and moved out of the house, especially since my older sister did it a total of eight times by the time she turned 30. My mom and dad professed to missing us because they don’t have good memories. What part of having kids did they miss — the work or the expense? Plus, I’d always understood that they felt they didn’t do a very good job of raising their children on the grounds that only one of us became a doctor.

Needing something to shower their attention on, they decided to raise Labradors, only one of which, in my opinion, has even a shot at getting into medical school. His name is Nick, and he’s bright enough to know how to open the refrigerator and make himself a ham sandwich (though he eats the ingredients separately and assembles the sandwich in his stomach).

What’s crazy about Nick’s behavior is that if he wants a ham sandwich, all he needs to do is ask — my parents will do anything for their dogs, up to and including donating a kidney. But Nick likes to cook and can often be found in the kitchen, whipping up a delicious meal using nothing more than the few ingredients my mother set out for dinner.

Their other dog, Carly, is beautiful, blonde and nowhere near smart enough to be a doctor, or to make a ham sandwich, or even to be a ham sandwich. Carly will watch in complete bewilderment as Nick places his paw on a lever to raise the garbage-can lid, and will have no idea what he’s doing as he carefully sticks his head in and daintily removes some delectable morsel from the trash. Her response will be to knock over the can with a crash, summoning my father, who will yell at Carly, while Nick nods wisely from the corner.

“Why did you do that, Carly?” Nick will ask in dog-speak.

“Huh? Do what?” Carly will respond, baffled.

When I telephone, my mother always asks me, “Would you like to talk to Nick?” which is her way of saying, “I need a sanity hearing.” After a minute or so of what sounds like a losing wrestling match with the phone, she comes back on.

“He’s shy,” she tells me.

“He’s not going to do very well as a doctor if he refuses to talk to patients,” I warn her.

“Here, I’ll put Carly on.

Carly, say hello! Say hello!” she coaxes.

There’s a lot of noise as Carly tries to figure out if the phone is worth eating. “Good girl,” my mother praises.

Nick and Carly were on my mind recently when I read that a Japanese company called Medical Life Care Giken has developed a stress test for pets that uses a stick-on patch applied to the animal’s feet. Previously, the only way to test a dog was to ask it, “Nick, are you stressed?” (The test didn’t work because Nick was too shy to answer.)

I’m going to buy some of these stress-test patches right away for my mother to use on her dogs, who probably find it pretty stressful that they don’t know what sort of treat they’ll be getting next. They also have a pretty demanding schedule, filled mostly with barking out the window and lying in the sun.

Nick: Hey, Carly, I’m lying here on the carpet, and I noticed the patch of sun isn’t where it used to be.

Carly: I’m stressed.

Nick: Me, too — that’s really stressful.

Carly: Guess I’ll go back to sleep.

Nick: I’m also stressed because of these patches on my feet.

Carly: Really? I ate mine.

Nick: What? You’re not supposed to eat them, you idiot. Why did you do that?

Carly: Huh? Do what?

Nick: You’re making my stress even worse! I think I’ll bark out the window!

Carly: Me, too!

(Five minutes of barking)

Carly: Hey, Nick!

Nick: Yeah?

Carly: What are we barking at?

(Maybe when I visit my parents, I’ll put the patches on my own feet.)

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