Ali, Alouette! Is all that drooling necessary? It wreaks havoc on Daddy’s hardwood floors. He dotes on you, so of course he says he doesn’t care. Tell Dadday that he needs to either buy you a drool rag or teach you a few dry begging techniques.
Where was I? Okay, canine anxiety; it’s on the rise according to social media. You always get jittery when Daddy starts assembling the Komfort Kit on your doggie mat under the kitchen table. Setting up your daybed there was a no-brainer: all that dropped food falling right into your large attentive mouth. Saves bending and stooping to clean it up. Win-win.
I agree, it’s exciting: Daddy getting under the table like that, spreading out your stone-colored orthopedic dog lounger with the just-washed (by me) removable cover. Okay, okay, pace the floor, do your I-want-a biscuit doggy dance (put your little foot right there), walk, step, turn, yap, yap, yap as Daddy tries to decide which trinkets will keep you occupied for the almost six hours that we’ll be away.
No worries, Daddy always potties you before we go out. Why does it take us so long to drive 70 miles to the shore, have a less than leisurely lunch, and then drive right back? I’ll tell you why (some call it progress, though profit would be a better term), all these new subdivisions built on our road with no plan for widening the highways to accommodate two point five automobiles per home on a pocket-size lot with no overnight street parking and everyone’s garages packed to the rafters with tangibles. Yes, Ali, some of those residents have dogs, though none as large (or as ungovernable) as you. So where do the subdivision people potty their pets if their backyards are carpeted in Astroturf edged by pastel plastic cemetery flowers? Lucky for you that we live on a farm, but why is it that you only want to pee and poop across the road at the cutesy entrance to Mrs. Paperwhite’s Fresh Organics and U-pick?
Ali, I can’t think while you’re barking. Didn’t Daddy just tell you, ‘That’s enough, please use your indoor bark’? Though I have a hard time discerning the infinitesimally small difference between your indoor bark and your outdoor. Come here, I’m not going to swat you—why do you always look like I beat you before breakfast? –let’s take a look at what Daddy’s organizing on your comfort rug: Several rag dolls suitable for dismembering, one pre-dismembered plush rabbit, several stuffing-free wildlife toys (raccoon, squirrel, skunk) that, to my eye, resemble roadkill, your pink pork-scented plastic pig with duel squeakers, one supposedly indestructible imitation femur bone and, ta-dah, our latest acquisition, a Bob-a-lot dog toy and treat dispenser, just one of the many boredom and anxiety separation relief toys I could have ordered with overnight delivery options. See Ali, it’s shaped like a tri-colored bowling pin, but smaller and with a decorative orange grosgrain ribbon fastened around its throat like a leash.
Ali, are you watching this? Daddy unscrews the top and fills the baby bowling pin with kibble. On the base, on one side, there’s a tiny window and when you bob the mini bowling pin around, sometimes a piece of kibble falls out. So fun for doggo, yes? Not fun? Of little interest to you, Ali? Well, how could it be when Daddy pops a mini–Milk Bone into your mouth a thousand times a day. Why spend the effort, why exert yourself when Daddy might appear at any moment with a Good Girl treaty treat—an entire biscuit, not a crumb-size piece of a cookie. A single kibble is hardly worth the effort.
Oh look, Daddy’s bobbing the toy across the floor, and, like magic, out pops a tiny piece of ocher-colored doggie crunch. You’re on it and Daddy claps his hands, urging you on with words of encouragement. It’s a Daddy and Me toy, Ali, your favorite. But alas, no fun at all unless Daddy is here to help you play with it. Too bad because it costs more than a twenty-pound sack of dry dog food, the special organic kind with brown rice and blueberries even though Daddy is against feeding you anything other than meat and pre-digested animal by-products. Blueberries for dogs? See how that makes Daddy’s face crinkle up?
The trouble is that in addition to remedying your anxiety, we need to distract you while we’re gone. God knows what, with your counter surfing abilities, you might consider an edible. Daddy brags about it all the time: your Olympic reach and the breath of your sweep. While dinosaur Daddy and toxic Mommie have been distracted, i.e., we’re not showering you with our undivided attention, you’ve snagged any one or more of the following: a 2 pound brick of Tillamook extra sharp cheddar (according to Daddy, yellow/gold is your favorite color). Or a half a pound of peppered salami, half a pound of Genoa, a one- pound package of mortadella sliced thin, six ounces of duck liver mousse (marked “no antibiotics ever”), what else? An 8 oz wedge of parmesan, countless loaves of Oro Wheat wide pan whole wheat bread, a bag of 4-cheese jalapeno bagels and most recently my lunch sandwich. Did you like that new mayonnaise? I’m sure that the cookie sheet of roasted eggplant and red bell peppers was a terrible disappointment, but you ate it anyway because we’ve taught you not to be judgy about meals. And yes, Daddy’s good girl even licked the pan, an act which, in his mind, seems to cancel out all your counter surfing thefts and worthy of a good-girl biscuit. Those are just a few examples of your plunder when we’re here, but our backs are turned. What about when we’re gone? Might you find my stack of New Yorker magazines and other reading material tasty like you found one of my favorite pair of cork-soled denim sandals tasty the last time we were away?
I agree: Daddy laying on his stomach under the table positioning your toys is a hoot, even if there’s no room for you to get under there and help. Sit. Good girl. Time for a biscuit? Half-a-biscuit. Mommie has rules. What? Daddy says he just gave you a cookie! Ali, why are you always lying to me? I used to be able to read you, but I can’t read you anymore. There’s nothing worse than a dog that habitually misrepresents the truth.
And what is it with this sudden streak of demand barking? What happened to nose nudges? How come you don’t worry about stepping into Mommie’s strike zone? You would never step into Daddy’s strike zone. Yeah, right, he doesn’t have one. When it comes to you.
Okay, okay, okay, Daddy’s still under the table showing you how to get kibble out of Bob-a-lot. Very exhilarating. You need to calm down and catch on here, so we can get on the road, get to the shore, stop for a coffee and scone, and get back home to you before your dinner time. So, what’s your babysitting pleasure, a little of Alexa’s Amazon music, Linda Ronstadt maybe, or the TV tuned to Animal Planet? How about a movie loop: Babe, Zootopia, Beethoven, The Cat in the Hat; you have options. Daddy has other ideas. Old TV reruns of real animals and live owners: The Lone Ranger, Roy Rodgers, the Cisco Kid, Tarzan of the Jungel, Rin-tin-tin. None of this modern animated stuff. Dogs aren’t stupid, Daddy says, they can tell a mechanical computer-generated voice from a real bark or growl or neigh.
What about Alexa? Ali, Daddy wants to know if Alexa could schmooze with you while we’re away. Maybe reassure you if you’re feeling overwhelmed and alone. And don’t we have Alexa Plus, the “I’m -here-to-listen” bot, monitoring and reporting all our data to we-know-not-whom? It’s a thought, though I’m not sure that dogs give credence to computer generated human voices. Could we get Alexa to shoot off biscuits at intervals? What about a Roomba-like dog-walking bot that could take you out to pottie? Probably not a good idea since you’d overpower her at the first sight of Big Bunny or one of his kin. You’d be gone, at large in the community, and Roomba dog-walker bot would be reduced to its elemental self: batteries, wires and splintered pieces of plastic.
Daddy says that there’s an Amazon Echo Alexa assistant for kids, so why not dogs? The screen of our Amazon Echo flashes photos twenty-four hours a day: portraits of Daddy’s vegetables–tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, cucumbers, cucumbers–and a few of me and Daddy taken back at the beginning of the century. The lion’s share of the Echo portraits are of you: Ali in profile left, Ali in profile right, Ali on her back on the couch sleeping in a cheese cake pose, Ali looking soulful, Ali, Ali, Ali. Ali, remind Daddy that you can’t talk or text, so how are you going to communicate with that small gray-green orb plugged into the wall in every room? Though I’d bet that some startup in San Francisco headed by a 25-year-old billionaire has one on the drawing board. I can see it on the newsstands, the lede in the latest issue of Postmodern Bark: Our editor sits down with Alouette (Ali to her friends) Alsatian-Mix Mutt and talks about what AI applications can do for dogs. Plus, new approaches to influencing canine impulsivity and curbing anxiety.
Ali, tell Daddy I vote outside input: “Alexa, we’re going to be away from the house and Ali for six hours, what items should be included in her Komfort Kit?” Per usual, Alexa immediately responds in an upbeat female voice. She likes the idea that we are thinking ahead and reminds us that it’s time to re-order a dozen cans of prime rib cuts in gravy. “Would you like me to schedule a delivery?” Daddy tells her “Yes.” “How did the Bob-a-lot work out for you,” she asks. “The jury is still out,” says Daddy. Just when did Alexa become so chatty?
I worry that we need to get on the road to the seaside, stop long enough to grab a coffee to go, then head home if we’re going to get back in time for Ali’s supper. Alexa isn’t worried. She flashes a picture of a red bucket of artificially flavored marshmallow dog treats that mimic PEEPS Easter candies in pastel pink and yellow on the Echo screen. Alexa advises me to channel my inner puppy and not hold back. “Shall I put Peeps on your shopping list?” she asks. Baby Doggie’s Daddy questions Alexa about added sugar, fructose, and imitation flavorings. We both know the answer to that one. Alexa is suddenly rendered silent. Ali looks up at her Daddy, her brown eyes melt like caramels and she starts to drool.
