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Opinion Columnists Jeff Petersen's columns If dogs could talk
If dogs could talk
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There’s nothing like accidentally touching an electric fence to achieve a higher level of consciousness. If dogs could talk, my trio of intrepid canines would tell of hair-raising experiences on their morning rounds. And since we share borders with a horse pasture, and a fence that is occasionally electrified, and “horse apples” are so appealing to roll in to start the day ... If dogs could talk, I’d also have heard an earful on the recent fireball that exploded over Tollgate. My three best friends witnessed that early morning celestial event. I missed it due to leg surgery, which prompted me to change up my morning routine for the first time in probably 300 days. So it goes. But I’m still considering attaching magnets to my four-iron golf club and seeing if I can get arrested for weirdness. No, that homemade device would help me find a meteorite in the midst of all the basalt that makes Oregon the most difficult state in the nation to find meteorites. The dogs might help that search. Dick Pugh, the Portland State University meteorite scientist who gave a presentation in La Grande Monday, recalled one noteworthy find. Before meteorite hunters could converge, the recently fallen space rock had been spotted by coyotes who proceeded to claim it in their customary way. Suffice it to say the meteorite was surrounded by tracks and yellow snow. Dogs do all sorts of helpful stuff for us besides melting snow during winters that outstay their welcome. The list ranges from unconditional love to entertainment and, not least, defending our abodes. Oregon is big into dog ownership. The state ranks fourth in the nation per capita behind only Idaho, Wyoming and Montana. If you’re like me, you’re skeptical of psychic animal communicators who say dogs talk to them. But it still would be entertaining if dogs could recount highlights from each morning’s hard, honest labor of checking out the neighborhood. My trio spends a lot of time mucking around in an attempt to achieve true Western grit. And unfortunately, despite my feeble attempts at training, the dogs think that I own the entire world. They think I am a land baron in the league of Donald Trump and Ted Turner, not the owner of a modest 3/4-acre patch. Occasionally the dogs give evidence of their forays. They’ll return home and employ the turkey vulture defense — projectile vomiting — on the living room carpet. My skills at home cleaning are getting plenty of practice as they regurgitate their morning adventures. Often the dogs return home as a canine parade — a series of burr-bush floats. Or they reveal dog breath that could wilt a geranium. I can only guess how they are supplementing their diet with Call of the Wild vitamins and minerals. Or the dogs come in and proceed to lay down and break wind. If I’m not mistaken, this is evidence of the rotting carcass they were hunkering down with during their adventure. Horse fertilizer is particularly appealing. The dogs seem to think wearing Essence of Ranch cologne will help them appeal more to their backpedaling master. Stepping on a steamer would be even more of a thrill for them if they could track some on the carpet. If dogs could talk, they’d also mention coyote choirs tuning up in the nearby hills. The dogs would tell tales of deranged squirrels, mutant insects and strange encounters with swamp creatures. Besides entertainment, dogs have more utilitarian uses. I for one am glad to be armed with a Northeast Oregon burglar alarm. You don’t have to go through all sorts of conniptions to set the dog alarm system, like you do systems on those fancy suburban McMansions. You just have to say “Guard the place” and leave them with a hug. Nothing beats a well-electrified wet dog to scare off a burglar.
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