COLUMN: My Dog Is Like Forrest Gump

Image via Wikipedia

By Tobin Barnes
Some of you may remember that last time I talked about our new puppy.

Our good old dog Matty died last April, so we had been gradually ramping up to the idea of getting another dog. We had thought the ramping had a way to go yet, but there was this advertisement, plain as day, for a puppy just like Matty. And there quickly followed the cute-puppy impulse and commitment.

Maybe you’ve been there. You know what I’m talking about.

I say the advertisement was “plain as day” as though it were lettered in intermittent on-off glaring neon lights on our living room wall.

Obviously, that was not the case. The notice was in small print, hiding amidst maybe fifty other pet ads in the local paper.

That’s right. It didn’t hit us over the head. This wasn’t a hostage situation.

It might better be described as an example of foolish free will, freely and cavalierly exercised.

And for better or worse, it’s been all puppy all the time ever since. A puppy does have an inescapable knack for soaking up your attention.

Since Matty, it’s been a while since we’ve been around a puppy. We had forgotten—maybe a form of psychic protection, like after blunt-force trauma—what it was like.

Perhaps the most startling thing about a puppy, other than the enormous amounts of waste it can download in any given day, is the pure energy that can burst forth in nuclear explosions of action.

When our puppy does anything, it’s dead-bolt, head-on.

She’s kind of like Forrest Gump in that way: “When I went anywhere, I was running.”

Yeah, it’s hell-bent-for-leather time with total expenditure of all resources. Every calorie available is devoted to galloping across the garage or tearing hell out of a cardboard box.

There’s no prudent conservation of energy for later possible escapades.

She suffers the tyranny of “Now!”

For a guy deeply ensconced in middle-age, the spectacle of her kineticism is remarkable. Here I am, hoping I can muster the energy to get up, climb the stairs, and go to bed most nights, and there she is, blazing away until she sometimes falls asleep on her feet.

Anyway, we decided to name her Scout, a noble name of long cultural heritage. Maybe the name emerged in our minds from the mists of our youth, having grown up with the daunting exploits of the Lone Ranger, whom Tonto called Kemo Sabe (Trusty Scout). And Tonto was quite a scout, too.

Or maybe it just materialized on a whim.

Whatever.

Little did we know how appropriate this name would be.

When in rare moments of composure, Scout studies us like a technical manual of operating instructions. We can’t make a move without her watching us.

I turn around and there she is, staring at me.

It’s eerie to be watched all the time. It’s like, “Give me a break! I’m not a movie.”

And, of course, there are times when we don’t want her to be aware of anything going on, like when we’re experiencing the divine peace of her being asleep—and we want to keep it that way.

We try to make imperceptible movements so as not to disturb her. We creep around like cat burglars—maybe that’s part of the problem. We sneak around our own house.

It never works.

Every time, she’s immediately aware that someone’s doing something.

“What’s that? Who’s There? Oh, you! Hey, come here. I gotta take a leak.”

It’s uncanny. She’s like a canine motion detector.

Roman slaves were never this much at the beck and call.