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10:03 am | 15 May 2003 | "nice dog"

At least once a week, i'll be out walking Guinn and some smallish kid, usually a boy between seven and twelve, will cast a longing glance my way and say, in the most Dickens-ly wistful voice ever, "Nice dog." Not ever "cute dog" or "i like your dog," but "nice dog," the way grown men eyeball each others' cars or women. Nice. Nice means you want it. And these boys are so polite--i usually ask if they want to pet her and they are so gentle and sweet about it that it just kills me.

I grew up with dogs: a giant Irish setter named Bridgett, a golden retriever that had failed leader-of-the-blind school named Jake, and now two corpulent goldens that my father teaches stupid parlour tricks to (Raina has learned to respond to shouted queries regarding Who let the dogs out with four appropriately-timed and super-retarded barks). There were a few other interlopers: Kip, Joey, a parade of now-dead goldfish (i imagine their little shiny ghosts strung above me like a garland as i sleep), an extremely awesome parakeet named Sonny, and Percy the Hedgehog, who is still rockin' even though he's like ninety. Maybe it sounds dumb, but these animals were so thoroughly part of my life that i can't imagine growing up without them. I told them my secrets. I pretended they were brothers and sisters when i was lonely and then when i got brothers and sisters i hung out with the animals even more, because they wouldn't chew my toys or spit up on me (usually). So these boys kill me, with their big dark Disneyland eyes. "Nice dog," they say. "Thanks," i say back. "We walk here every day. You can always come pet her." clm.


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