I think my dog talks behind my back.
He was out in the yard yesterday, reclining by the fence we share with a neighbor. And their dog was outside as well. I watched them from inside the house with a growing sense of unease. They nudged their heads together and whispered to one another like co-conspirators. Then my dog pointed toward me, covered his mouth, and they both started laughing. I yelled out, “Hey – dog of mine!” (I was so upset I’d forgotten his name). “Don’t think I don’t know you and that little tart you hang around with are talking about me.”
My sudden anxiety forced me to storm into the kitchen. I gazed about frantically, before doing the only thing possible to relieve my apprehension. I ate a Pop-Tart. After my wife came home a few minutes later, she could tell I was upset by the number of empty Pop Tart cartons stacked on the counter. She wandered into the adjoining room and sat down at the dining room table where I joined her. Her eyes raised toward the chandelier above, I’m sure praying it would drop on my head. This would allow her to at last embark on her dream vacation, alone, to the Bahamas. She asked casually, “So, have the dogs been talking about you again?”
Now this made me livid because she was acting just like those insolent hooligans out in the backyard, and I told her so. I said, “Hey you, a woman who lives in this house (by this time I’d forgotten her name as well). “You know nothing about me!” I jumped to my feet. “And when are you gonna buy some more Pop-Tarts?”
By this time our dog had let himself back into the house and helped himself to a dog biscuit, and I could swear he was attempting to conceal a box of Pop-Tarts from me as well. He and my wife disappeared into the living room, and I heard the two of them laughing and whispering, and they weren’t talking about the weather.
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Incredibly, my dog does the same.