I’m ‘a get a scholarship to puppy obedience classes
I prob’ly shouldn’t brag, but dag, I amaze and astonish
The problem is I got a lot of fur but no polish
I gotta bark just to be heard
With every yip, I drop knowledge!
I make my way downtown to a hip Manhattan dog park. In olden times, youths frequented dog parks to relax, drink cocktails, and maybe find a fellow dog owner to take home. No longer. In this brave new world, all of the park goers clutch their phones and swipe furiously through the latest hookup app: Tindog.
I’m good with dogs the way others are good at math, or tennis, or open-mouth kissing. It’s a gift, really -- my ability to effortlessly interact all the different breeds. Some people might say I’m captivated by them but I believe that they’re captivated by me.
I came home to find Lily sitting under the table. My boyfriend had texted me a picture of a dog, a fluffy yellow puppy that, in another life, had probably starred in commercials with Christmas trees and Nordic-looking nuclear families.
If you are unfamiliar with The Littlest Hobo (we shall dispense with any pointless remarks about the American film or brief 1960s TV program that preceded it), it was a Canadian live-action television show from the late-1970s to mid-1980s aimed at children in which the title character, a dog, roamed solo from town to town solving crimes. He cannot talk. That's a real thing that happened on television. I would now like to share some Wikipedia…
The following story was written by an actual eight year old named Becky, who is now an adult (and whose debut novel comes out next year).
One day a dog had 7 puppies. Candy, Bubbles, Spot, Flower, Brownie, Bambi, and Tootsiroll. Tootsiroll was the runt. All the puppies had spots. There were 6 nipples on their mother, Apple. One day Flower went up to Bubbles. They talked and had fun. Soon…
The summer we lost the dog was the summer that we lost Joey. It seems somewhat misleading, even crude to say that we lost the dog because to lose something implies that you noticed when it was gone and to say that I lost Joey would be simplification, an attempt to beautify a carrion. We lost the dog that summer because my father was tired of looking out for another life. We lost Joey because…
Amy Spalding is a pet enthusiast and young adult fiction author. She grew up outside of St. Louis, and now lives in Los Angeles with two cats and a dog. She and I ate brunch and discussed our mutual hatred for sad commercials featuring dogs.
Let’s get down to brass tacks. What is your dog’s name, and what breed is she?
Previously: A Partial But By No Means Exhaustive List of Egg References in the Works of P.G. Wodehouse "'Talking of being eaten by dogs, there’s a dachshund at Brinkley who when you first meet him will give you the impression that he plans to convert you into a light snack between his regular meals. Pay no attention. It’s all eyewash. His belligerent attitude is simply—' 'Sound and fury signifying nothing, sir?' 'That’s it. Pure swank.