Since my last post was construed by some as anti-canine, I’ll publish this gem from four years ago, pre-marriage, pre-blog, pre-children, etc. I had a habit of spending a few hours after work on Friday night drinking alone on my deck and talking to my dog, Winnie, while waiting on the neighbors to get ready to go out. Sometimes, I’d bring out a laptop with me and type these conversations. Here’s one I found in an old email inbox:
He sits alone on a Friday night on his deck at a circular metal table purchased the preceding summer at a Dutch woman’s moving sale. He is flanked by 2 citronella candles and five empty beer bottles. In front of him rests a sweating 3/4 full bottle of Heineken and a plastic plate holding Digiorno pizza. He reads about Bono. Eighties music plays through , courtesy of XM radio. A small black dog is at his feet: Winnie.
M: I wonder if I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing with my life? You know? It must be easy for you—you just exist and don’t worry about your purpose. But what about me?
Winnie: Maybe you should think about someone or something besides yourself. Then you wouldn’t have to subject me to these miserable pity parties.
M: Hmmm. Sometimes I’m jealous of you, Winnie. It must be great being a cute little dog.
Winnie: It’d be a lot greater if my daddy would get a fucking life.
M: I’m so glad I finally decided to take you home with me. I’ll bet you were worried at the shelter that I’d just keep coming to visit but never actually adopt you, huh?!
Winnie: Not really. I was glad to be away from the trailer trash who beat me. I liked the redhead who talked you into finally bringing me home, though.
M: Now that you’re mine, I can’t imagine life without my little Winnie dog. I mean, what would I be doing right now if I didn’t have you to come home to?
Winnie: Therapy, I would hope.
M: You look like you have so much to say but just can’t. Sometimes I wish you could talk—just to know what you’re thinking!
Winnie: It’s to your benefit that I can’t, believe me.
Apparently, I wasn’t the happiest of campers back in those days. Anyone else have conversations with their pets? With alcohol? Ever write them down? Let me know how normal this behavior is!