I made a startling discovery today. After hours of rationalizing, reasoning and thinking I came up with the following conclusion: Our dog doesn’t understand us because she only understands French. Our 12 year old puppy was born somewhere in Acadia, that’s that part of Nova Scotia where they still speak French.
This also explains why she doesn’t listen to me or my wife. Our dog prefers to drop her message at spots where she’s out of view. And most importantly, she eats with knife and fork. Yes. You heard that quite alright. Talking about table manners, she has a distinctive way of letting know she is in charge. Naturally, that is, after our cat has signed off for the day as the ‘Pet-Commander-in-Chief’.
So: from now on, it’s “je m’appelle Arthur, comment t’appelle-tu, mon petit cherie”? That is French for ‘Do you want a dogbone, Katy?’.
update: Make that Katie, instead of Katy