The other day, being the great dog-owner that I am, I offered my dog Bullet a chance to go to the dump with me. He was all excited to jump in the car—mostly because he thought we were about to go on a hike. I was hopeful, though, because he always makes me feel so bad for him when I leave, that he really just wanted my company. Turns out this was not the case.
When we pulled into the dump, he looked at me with these giant sad eyes he has. What is this? This isn’t a trail. “I know,” I said. “This is the dump. You can look at all of the people moving about.” He was not impressed. Leaving the car in idle so he’d stay warm, I went about my business. I am a ninja of unparalleled efficiency at the dump and when I pull up, I always feel a little like the dad in A Christmas Story when their car gets a flat tire. Ah, ha! Four minutes. Time me!
But today was not going to be my day. A lady who I had never seen working at the transfer station before spotted Bullet and asked if she could pet him. This ate up a minute or two as I needed to go back to the truck, roll down the window so she’d have access to Bullet through the passenger side door, and then chat with her for a little bit. Daggabit! This was the Indianapolis 500 and we were introducing too many variables in the pits.
After a rather slow operation, probably my personal worst, I returned to the truck. There, I observed my dog’s sullen attitude working its magic on the attendant, who suddenly turned to one of her colleagues and said, “He’s so sad. Look at him… he’s so sad.” Another attendant, who I had also never seen before, widened his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, made eye contact with her, and then gave me a disapproving glance. Whoa, what was that? Do they think I’m the reason he’s so sad? Am I imagining this? No—you just don’t know this dog! He is MOODY.
Right then and there, I decided to never take Bullet to the dump or anywhere else again. It’s like when you go to the hospital with your kid and the doc asks all those questions about whether they feel safe, even though you brought the kid in for a fever. Just a fever. Clearly a sign that they’re not injured and that you not only care, but you love them to bits. Society already makes me feel like I’m going to be falsely accused enough—I don’t need my dog making people think I beat him or something.
I looked at Bullet, who was continuing to look glum. “Dude,” I said. He gave me another sheepish look as I contemplated what I was going to say next. “Fine. Let’s go on a hike.” That got him. Raising his head, he looked at me more intently, and his eyes, which 99% of the time carry all of the hurt and suffering Mother Earth has ever endured, showed the crinkle of a smile.
I know. I totally agree.
What a jerk.