Hyperbole and a Half. Allie Brosh, "Hyperbole and a Half" Dog. A lingering fear of mine was confirmed last night: My dog might be slightly retarded.
I've wondered about her intelligence ever since I adopted her and subsequently discovered that she was unable to figure out how stairs worked. I blamed her ineptitude on the fact that she'd spent most of her life confined to a small kennel because her previous owners couldn't control her. I figured that maybe she just hadn't been exposed to stairs yet. Accepting the noble responsibility of educating this poor, underprivileged creature, I spent hours tenderly guiding her up and down the staircase - placing biscuits on each step to lure her and celebrating any sign of progress. When she still couldn't successfully navigate the stairs at the end of her first week with me, I blamed it on her extreme lack of motor control. The next clue came when I started trying to train her.
I was wrong. Dogs Don't Understand Basic Concepts Like Moving. Packing all of your belongings into a U-Haul and then transporting them across several states is nearly as stressful and futile as trying to run away from lava in swim fins.
I know this because my boyfriend Duncan and I moved from Montana to Oregon last month. But as harrowing as the move was for us, it was nothing compared to the confusion and insecurity our two dogs had to endure. Our first dog is - to put it delicately - simple-minded. Our other dog is a neurotic German shepherd mix with agonizingly low self-esteem who has taken on the role of "helper dog" for our simple dog. Neither dog is well-equipped with coping mechanisms of any kind.
When we started packing, the helper dog knew immediately that something was going on. When the soul-penetrating pathos she was beaming at me failed to prevent me from continuing to put things in boxes, the helper dog became increasingly alarmed. Unfortunately for the helper dog, it took us nearly a week to get everything packed up. How a Fish Almost Destroyed My Childhood. When I was seven, my family moved from suburban California to rural Idaho.
In an effort to embrace Northern Idaho culture, my dad took me fishing at a lake near our house. I was really excited. Mostly because I thought that I would get to keep the fish I caught as a pet. My dad spent all day showing me how to thread a worm and cast a line. Every second, I expected to feel a pull on my hook and reel in my new best friend. I was heartbroken. I was ecstatic!
The fisherman set his bucket on the dock and let me pick out my fish. Once we got home, my dad went to take a nap and I carried my fish's bucket out into our backyard. I set my friend free in his new home and watched him swim around for awhile. After making sure that my fish was comfortable and happy, I went inside to make toys and furniture for him.
Menace. Power is intoxicating.
Everyone loves having the ability to make their decisions into reality — to think "this should be something that happens," and then actually be able to make that thing happen. It is also dangerous. And it is especially dangerous when applied to four-year-olds. Four-year-olds lack the experience to wield power responsibly. They have no idea what to do with it or how to control it. But they like it. The dinosaur costume was the greatest thing that had ever happened to me. But being a dinosaur felt natural. And powerful. The feeling had been slowly intensifying ever since I put the costume on that morning, and, as I stood there in the middle of the classroom, staring off into the distance in an unresponsive power trance, it finally hit critical mass. I had to find some way to use it. The other children screamed and fled. All I knew was that being a dinosaur felt very different from being a person, and I was doing things that I had never even dreamed of doing before.