My Dog has a Secret

 

Secrets…we all have ‘em. They’re disguises we hide behind.

 

My dog Bogey has been acting strangely lately. He must have a secret he’s not sharing. I know this because his eyes give him away. Just when I think I have picked up on some clue, they dart away. Prying out secrets from dogs or humans is an art, not a science.

I’ve been trying for a long time to get him to come clean, to reveal those secret instincts that push his button, that expose his inner character. But all I’m getting are bits and pieces of his canine nature. They offer up only hints and glimpses into his true self.

Maybe he’s enjoying leading me on a hide and seek chase. He’s not saying. I can only speculate. If he could talk beyond what his eyes and body postures reveal, he might ask me why I have this perverse curiosity of attempting to intrude into his psyche. A good question for all of us.  

He might even speculate that exposing his secrets would subject him to being manipulated or controlled. All he offers up is some obscure quote, “The desert is mute, littered with bones of dogs that reveal secrets.”

But he is an expert in the art of manipulating compassionate humans. He was born with this talent.  Admittedly my motives may be suspect, and he might even distrust my methods for extracting his secrets. Bribery with chicken is less than subtle. Who knows what’s in a dog’s mind. Or a human, for that matter. 

Still, I keep trying. Some days I notice small progress, noting carefully what my observations reveal. Mostly his eyes show a lot of what he’s not saying. They’re a dead giveaway. 

But eyes give us all away. Just the other day I saw a friend in the parking lot. She was visibly effervescent and eager to talk. I wondered why? Did she have a secret to unload? I asked.

“You’re acting especially young and full of energy today. What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, just reliving the fires of last weekend.”

Ah, I think, she has a secret that’s bursting at the seams to get out.  And this is an open door. My curiosity and I walk right in.

“Fires? Did you light a match, burn something down?”

“No, went to Cumberland Island with friends for a few days.”

Her eyes seem to beg for more interrogation, so I oblige.

“Was wine involved? Who can go camping on an island without appropriate libations?”

Her face lights up. “Absolutely, and a full moon to boot.”

“Well, if there was fruit of the vine, then there must have been a beach, a blanket and a fire, right?” I stoke the embers of her still-burning fire by mentioning that inhibitions are volatile and highly flammable in the ambiance of these conditions.  

“Of course.” Her response is a measured caution.  I sense that I have stirred the ashes of some sweet secret she has stored from those fires.

“Want to share any details?” Perhaps this inquiry was too direct and had crossed a line. But hey, curiosity has no boundaries.

Suddenly there is silence between us as the question sinks in. The veil of secrecy is about to be rent.

(And in that brief space of time, I recall having told Bogey that there’s relief in revealing his hidden secrets. But just when I’m closing in, he finds a sniff or other diversion to distract his attention. So much for “closet” secrets. Instantly I’m back to square one, which is where I find myself now.)

She dodges my question by fiddling with her car keys and looking at her watch. Her eyes avoid mine. Her secret locks itself in tight and slams the door shut.

She blows me off with some French cliché, “Autres temps, autres moeurs, another time, another place,” laughing and walking off. My curiosity and I dangle like limp rags hanging on the door handle.  

So much for being a parking-lot voyeur intruding into the intimate secrets of a friend. Some details are best left proprietary. And maybe the same is true of dogs. Chicken bribing and tummy tickles work pretty well.

After all, I don’t really need to know Bogey’s secrets. It’s enough to just enjoy his company. Same with friends.

 

Bud Hearn

October 31, 2022

 

 

Slang it to Me

 

If it weren’t for cliches, could we communicate? 

* * *

Cliches…we’ve over-used these time-tested platitudes. They’re rusting out, about to bite the dust. Acronyms and euphemisms of verbal arcana are the new Esperanto. I’ve cobbled together a few of the oldies. They tell it like it is.

Our culture is bloated with idiomatic jargon. We belly up to the bar and listen to new claptrap chatter like lol, yolo, ESG, wtf, omg and omw, but all that will never get the same respect as letting you ain’t just whistling Dixie, boss roll off our tongues.

Today our Republic, and the world, seem to be hanging by a thread. Cordiality is as scarce as hen’s teeth and anger rules the roost. Only absolute is politics which is still business as usual. Congress keeps slamming the door in our faces and we’re fed up with having to go around the block with Joe.  

Consensus fell off the wagon. Common sense took a hit and the wolf is at the door demanding more handouts We’re robbing Peter to pay Paul to keep anarchy and looters off the streets.

There’s enough blame to go around. But misery loves company, and the fat’s in the fire when government borrows from itself to pay its bills. Our elected geniuses keep kicking the can and falling all over one another promising we’ll dodge the bullet of insolvency in spite of it being the eleventh hour. Do you feel like we’re being hung out to dry while others are being rewarded with the fruits of our labors?

The moment of truth has arrived. The Treasury is broke. It’s running from pillar to post, the IRS taxing everything that moves for money to pay the piper. The political fat cats are laughing all the way to the bank.

Loose screws are everywhere, figuratively of course. Our Supreme Leader is running around like a chicken with his head cut off, reading from teleprompters while we shake our heads and wonder if he’s playing with a full deck.

Then there’s Putin, a short dog in tall grass, striking matches and drawing lines in the sands of Ukraine. He’s shooting from the hip about nuclear Armageddon, having forgotten his mother’s warning, play with fire and you’ll get burned.

And where’s the former POTUS, the Man of La Maga? He’s running helter-skelter with bloodhounds on his trail. If it weren’t so serious it’d all be a joke.

Meanwhile, woke is up to its eyeballs rewriting history in schools while the borders are falling apart at the seams. Goodbye Robert E. Lee, been nice knowing you.   

What is the solution to the political turmoil permeating the halls of justice? Legalized duels, that’s what. They will end political gridlock. No more endless beating around the bush. Meet me out back, bring your knife or gun and put your money where your mouth is.

Solutions are quick and easy when things become a matter of life or death. Such contests focus the mind, and it’s a fair and square way of coming to grips with issues. It would be the final nail in the coffin of flawed concepts and idiotic ideology, Nancy and Bernie, and truly separate the men from the boys, Mitch and Chuck.

Citizens keep getting the short end of the stick. We’re leaning on a weak reed of one measly vote, riding on a merry-go-round of illusion and living in a fool’s paradise of broken promises. It’s high time we roll up our sleeves and stop equivocating.

The media’s grim handwriting is on the wall and throws fuel on the fire while we sit on our hands and hope the sorry mess will run its course. Yet, all we do is run off at the mouth while eating humble pie. Soon we’ll have to face the music and put up or shut up.

While we may be as clueless as the man in the moon as to what’s really going on, we’re still hard nuts to crack. We’re tending to our business, trying to make hay while the sun shines. There’s no grass growing under our feet. 

* * *

It’s a dysfunctional, dystopian new world. Get used to it. If you don’t like it today, tomorrow will be a real pain in the ass. So put your foot in the door, sign up for Twitter and throw your own hat into the ring.

Remember, the long and short of it all is still this: You only live once…YOLO. Never throw in the towel. May God bless your little hearts.  

 

Bud Hearn

October 3, 2022