Three Dog Night

In light of the critical world events taking place in the news, I know many of you are anxious to know more about my dogs. 

I’ll start with Marigold, our blind coonhound. Right now, Marigold is barking outside.

It’s five o’clock in the morning and the whole neighborhood can hear Marigold. The whole neighborhood always hears Marigold. The whole neighborhood loves us. 

And even though I stand outside, barefoot, saying, “SSSHHH! GO POTTY!” Marigold ignores me and sniffs the backyard, smelling each individual blade of grass until she finally selects the same peeing location she has used for the last 13,290 consecutive mornings. 

The baying voice of a coonhound is hard to miss. It is a sustained low tenor, powerful enough to change the migratory patterns of waterfowl. 

The strangest things excite her. She is always getting worked up, for example, whenever anyone says “Alright.”

We don’t know how this started. 

We think, perhaps, “Alright” is a verbal cue we usually say the moment before we get up to feed the dogs. “Alright!” someone might say, rising off the sofa. 

Either way, this word has been embedded in Marigold’s consciousness. Which makes it challenging to, for example, have a simple conversation.

Because the moment you utter the word, “alright,” tiny bits of ceiling plaster start falling like rain and many of the neighbors are already putting their houses on the market. 

We have two other dogs, of course. Thelma Lou, bloodhound, who weighs upwards of hundred pounds, stands seventeen hands tall, with paws the size of Volkswagens. She is Marigold’s Seeing Eye Sister. 

Marigold follows Thelma everywhere, keeping close beside her, imitating Big Sister. Whenever Thelma sits on the sofa, Marigold sits on the sofa. Whenever Thelma barks, Marigold barks. Whenever Thelma rolls around on a dead squirrel carcass in the backyard, Marigold helpfully brings the carcass into the kitchen for future use. 

Also, we have Otis, alleged Labrador, who weighs as much as a Peterbilt dump truck.

Otis often stares at the female dogs in the same way you might look at alligators who are eating live chickens. I think he is afraid of them. Namely, because female dogs are—and this is a biologically true fact—bat-excrement insane. 

Most of the time, however, Otis just sits beside me looking up at me as though he’s saying, “Help.”   

So anyway, our dogs are all very sweet. In fact, they are the sweetest I’ve known. We have no children, and so they have become our children.

I realize this makes us pathetic, but I don’t care. We have a home full of love, peace, the occasional flea infestation, and of course lots of noise. 

Alright?

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