My dogs are smarter than me.
I’ve stopped fighting that truth.
They sit there with those patient faces,
pretending to listen,
tilting their heads like tiny professors
waiting for me to finish the wrong answer.
I swear they roll their eyes.
Not even subtle about it.
A slow blink…
a sideways glance…
that little huff through the nose
that says,
“Bless his heart, he’s trying.”
They talk about me, too.
I hear them.
Not the words,
just the tone.
That low conversational rumble
when they think I’m out of earshot,
like they’re discussing
my questionable life choices
and the fact that I still don’t understand
What “woof” means in context.
They tell on each other
with the enthusiasm of toddlers.
One trots up, proud and righteous,
to report a crime:
a stolen sock,
a chewed corner,
a conspiracy in progress.
The other follows behind
with the face of someone
wrongly accused
but absolutely guilty.
And when they’re really up to something,
they close my studio door.
Not push it.
Not nudge it.
They close it.
Firmly.
With purpose.
Because whatever they’re plotting
is none of my business
until they decide it is.
My dogs are smarter than me.
I’ve accepted it.
Honestly, it’s a relief.
Someone in this house
should know what they’re doing.
wcd
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