Whispering Bob

The dogs that live with me have been acting out a bit lately. Perhaps it’s my fault for slacking off in my position as leader of the pack, but that would be admitting weakness on my part. Admitting weakness is not a smart move when you live with a gang of canines; they will challenge your authority and possibly rip off your scrotum while you sleep. Since my scrotum is still useful, and I am quite attached to it, I decided to become more assertive and kick some ass and take some names.
I suppose I could have shelled out some money for lessons or books about obedience training, but I am saving up to buy a kit I found on the internet that supplies everything I need to make a flying-squirrel-powered airplane, and I need every penny. Instead, I turned to cable television to solve my problem.
After I cut the yard this morning, I didn’t feel much like writing, so I sat down, turned on the TV, and began flipping through all 4287 channels piped into my home. I paused for a few moments on ESPN24 to watch full-contact golf for a while, until I realized it was a rerun of a tournament I watched last month. My thumb was getting tired of pushing the buttons on the remote when I finally landed on a channel that held some promise, the National Geographic Channel. A program was just beginning called “The Dog Whisperer.”
I called out to Pathetic Bob, the Italian greyhound, to come in the room. “Look Bob,” I said, “it’s a program about another dog who can talk, just like you. Actually,” I corrected myself, “he can only whisper, but that’s pretty cool, too.”
Bob looked at the TV, and then back at me. “Em, you’re such a putz. I’ve seen this show before. It’s about a guy named Cesar who supposedly whispers to dogs and tries to get them to do what he wants. The thing is though, the guy never whispers; he just talks in a regular, Spanish-accented voice. And for your information, ink breath, Cesar says he doesn’t train dogs, he trains people and rehabilitates dogs.”
“I think I’ll watch it anyway,” I said.
“You’d just be wasting your time. I’ve already trained you, and I stopped smoking catnip last year, so I don’t need rehabilitating.”
I continued to watch “The Dog Whisperer,” and noticed Bob was right, about the whispering part. He talked in a normal tone of voice and used a lot of body language. I have to admit, he was pretty effective. There was a couple that had what looked like a Shetland pony with razor teeth and a bad attitude. It seems the horse-dog had bitten the left arm off a nine-year-old, neighborhood kid, robbed a savings and loan, pistol whipped a nun, and had a bad crack habit. They asked Cesar to come over and “rehabilitate” the dog so they wouldn’t have to call in the swat team. It was amazing to watch the whisperer work his magic. By the end of the program, the giant hellhound was washing the dishes, folding the laundry, visiting sick children in hospitals, and grooming the neighbor’s cat.
“This guy is amazing,” I told Bob. “I think I’m going to give him a call.”
“Jeez Em, you’re more gullible than the people who listen to right-wing talk radio. That “dog” was a digitized animation, probably created by that guy who made “Star Wars.” And that couple, they were actors. I’ve seen them before on “General Hospital.” It’s all fake Em. It’s TV. I think it’s an infomercial for Dog Whispering Incorporated. I read in Star magazine that Cesar gets $2,000 an hour to come to your house and intimidate your dog and tell you what a schmuck you are. But, hey, you know what’s best. It’s a shame though, I mean you were really looking forward to flying that squirrel plane.”
I thought about that for a moment. Bob was right; hiring Cesar would put a serious dent in my tree-rodent, aeronautical plans. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “if you start showing me a little more respect, I won’t sic Cesar on you, and I’ll even let you ride in the squirrel plane.”
“Sure, no problem Em. Now, switch back to the full-contact golf channel; I just love it when Tiger Woods beats the hell out of his caddy with a nine iron.