The thing I like about talking to dogs is, they always say the right thing. I was reminded of this today at the gym, when I pulled out a white t-shirt that was covered in dog hair. The hairs came courtesy of Roswell, a large, friendly, possibly senile dog who I hung out with last weekend at Shawn's house. During my stay, I observed that Shawn's house appears to be constructed out of primarily dog hair. You find the hairs everywhere-- on the floor, on the couch, floating in midair... but Roswell's such a lovable dog that even when you find yourself gasping for breath due to hair-induced nasal congestion, you can't help but rub his head and go "ooooooh.... who's a smelly doggie? yes you are!! yes you are!!"
I spent a fair amount of time talking to Roswell about dog-ness while I was over there. A typical conversation went as follows:
Me: Roswell, it sucks to be a dog.
Roswell: (pants enthusiastically, which I interpret as "interesting-- do go on.")
Me: Well for one thing you can't vote. Also, you can't make chicken parmesan. And you smell bad.
Roswell: (pants enthusastically, which I interpret as "yes, excellent points.")
Me: On the other hand, you don't have to work for a living. That's pretty cool.
Roswell: (pants enthusiastically, which I interpret as... well you get the idea.)
I guess by this logic, I'd do equally well chatting with a turnip or a goldfish. But the beauty of talking to dogs is, they always look like they're paying attention! I need to learn that trick. (pants enthusastically)