It seems unfair somehow that with all the other burdens forced on me in this life, I'm also saddled with the world's %J dumbest dog.
Understand, I love the dog with all my heart. He is a wonderful little fellow, very affectionate, a great companion and so on.
Nevertheless, it has become abundantly clear that the dog is not very bright.
In fact, there is every reason to suspect the dog has some sort of learning disability.
Look, I read all these studies about how intelligent dogs are supposed to be, how they grade out higher in IQ than cats, canaries or ponies.
Then I look at my dog. And what I see is the doggy version of an eighth-grade dropout.
I see a dog that might as well be hanging out in a pool hall, running numbers and walking around with a pack of Salems rolled up in one sleeve.
In order to understand just how dim-witted the dog is, you need to know the basic topography of my back yard.
If you're into visualization, picture a back yard with nothing in it except: a) grass and b) one small pine tree.
In other words, when I tie the dog out there on a rope, he has a wide open expanse in which to roam. He can run in any direction his little heart desires.
I'm telling you, most dogs would kill for this kind of freedom.
Most dogs, you'd tie them out there and they'd think: "Hot damn! I can go over here . . . or over there . . . or . . . gosh this is great!"
But apparently my dog thinks -- if that's the word -- a little differently than other dogs.
Because every time I tie my dog out there, he makes a bee-line for the pine tree.
Then he proceeds to sprint around the tree a few times, until the rope is hopelessly tangled and he's unable to move.
Then he sits there with a vacant expression until I come out and untangle him, which I'm forced to do every, oh, five minutes or so.
Now, you would think after the first 50 or 100 times of wrapping himself around this tree, the dog would wise up.
You'd think he'd say to himself: "OK, I don't know what it is about that stupid tree. But every time I go over there, something bad happens. All of a sudden, I . . . I can't move. So I'm not going over there anymore."
But my dog displays no such clarity of thought.
My dog apparently looks at the tree and figures: "Sure I've gotten tangled up the last 100 times. But hell, it can't happen again! I mean . . . if you think about it, what are the odds?"
