“Why do you pretend to talk like Deefer?” Oliver asked.
Turns out ventriloquating (a technical term) for your dog is very common. Linguist Deborah Tannen calls it “talking dog.”
We think of it as translating the thoughts you’re having, Deef. Adding color to the commentary we see running in that head of yours:
• “Get my food, b*tch.”
• “Take me for my fookin walk.”
• “About fookin time, I’m skin and bone.”
(By the way, we have to have a talk about your language. You get that from your mother.)
—
I was thinking about the last haircut you got in Dublin: June 12, 2023. We knew it was your last one before getting on the plane. We took our time.
There was a slight chill from the rain, but you didn’t seem to mind, perched in your basket. We brushed past buses in the Liberties, past the tourists in their horse and buggy, made it to the steep descent and zipped through Kilmainham towards Islandbridge. The wind cut through your fur. You closed your eyes and relaxed, your paws dangling out of the basket, like someone enjoying their summer holiday. Very human indeed.
That night, alone in Clancy Quay, I met this bulldog. He must have been 25kg, twice your size. You hate him, so I never get a chance to say hello.
This time I did. He was annoying. He jumped, and he was heavy. His nails needed trimming. Worst yet, he stunk. Like dirty dish water.
Back at the apartment, you watched me wash the smell of wet dog off my hands. You rolled over.
I rubbed your belly. I snuggle into your fur. It still smelled like puppy fur, even though you turned 9 today.
“We’re so lucky to have you, Deef,” I say.
“No shit, you fookin clown.”
Happy 9th birthday, my bud.
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