JUNE 9, 2021 – Barking neighborhood dogs used to annoy me. Recently, however, I quit barking—to avoid another manifestation of “old.” A cranky geezer is as appealing as “grampaw” clearing extra phlegm in the morning. Time to act 10 years younger than I am.
This attitude-adjustment renders me almost amiable. Got a rescue dog that barks at every animate object? Not a problem! (Nice pet.) Just bought an expensive yipper-yapper? I say, “Welcome to the neighborhood!” Own an ugly dog with a bark that pierces eardrums? No worries! I’ll simply press palms to ears before the canine sees me.
Apply this tolerance strategy in other contexts, and surely I’ll find additional peace and reconciliation. Thinking, shouting silly thoughts among people wearing red caps? Sure! Why not?! After all, sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never . . . Oops! Let’s try another example . . .
Barking dogs can inspire a sense of artistic greatness. For example, directly across the alley lives “Dante,” as in “Alighieri” (I imagine), reincarnated as a dog. I pretend he barks in Medieval Italian, and if I just give Divine Canine a chance, I’ll be a better person for it. I’m waiting eagerly for “Caruso” or “Pavarotti” to move in next door. Soon dog-bark alley will be Teatro alla Scala. I’ll impress myself by becoming a fan of the opera. The good life will be even better.
I have a mind to share this post with a woman whose two dogs bark insanely every time I pass. I used to think they were barking at me, which made me snarl. Now with attitude adjusted, I’m convinced they’re barking at the fence. Inevitably, I hear the owner yell, “STOP barking!” This makes me laugh. If her (dumb-looking) dogs were half as smart as she is loud, they’d bark back, “YOU stop barking!”
One street over, two blocks down lives a collie—a rare breed these days. It barks a familiar falsetto—familiar, because we had a collie when I was growing up. Even before my recent transformation, I didn’t mind the collie barking whenever I walked by. The collie’s a royal strain, as handsome as it is intelligent, and as loyal as any “best friend” can be.
My dad had a problem with barking dogs and resisted strenuously my younger sister’s lobbying efforts to acquire a collie. Dad finally relented, only to have “Björn” bark up a storm his first night with us. The scene that ensued became an episode in a screenplay and a chapter in a book I wrote—then shelved years ago. Here now summarized: The time was half-past midnight; the method, a garden hose; the casualty . . . Dad—so flustered, he hadn’t twisted the nozzle on right before turning the water on full blast. He got soaked and swore. I howled in laughter, as Björn kept barking in falsetto.
The denouement took a while, but eventually my “sister’s dog” became Dad’s best friend . . . and learned to bark . . . in Swedish.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
