I have passed into a strange new phase of adulthood. I now own a dog.
A one-year-old black German shepherd, to be precise. His name is Nike, which was not my decision, but I am starting to like it. It is high time someone retrieved that name from the ashcan of commercialization and returned it to the world. My four-legged slice of midnight will be a dandy vehicle for this transformation. And, no doubt, for much else. He already knows how to sit, stay, fetch, etc. He only pulls a little on the leash. And, good heavens, when I speak to him, he listens.
Granted, he wears a pinch collar. So my communications may have a certain urgency. But actually, the collar hardly seems necessary. He is the first conscious being I have met who actually seems to enjoy my telling him what to do.
I could get used to this.
He looked at me earlier as if to say: Sit, stay fetch. How boring. Surely there is more to doggy life than this?
Nike, I said, you're my man.
Wag, wag, wag.
This here is the coffee pot, I said. And this here is the button that makes it go.
Wag, wag.
If he makes me coffee before our morning hike tomorrow, I don't know what I'll do.
