When I bought my dog two years ago, the breeder who sold him said: "You got yourself a real smart dog there, mister."
Since I had just paid more for the dog than I paid for my first car, this was reassuring to hear.
Then I looked down and saw something that, thinking back on it now, was probably a bad sign.
The four other puppies in the litter were busy eating their puppy chow. Then there was my puppy. My puppy was standing in the puppy chow.
"You say he's real smart?" I said to the breeder.
"Smart as a whip," the breeder said, pocketing the check I'd just given him and ushering me and the dog to the door.
Anyway, I took the dog home and we waited for him to do something smart.
Two months went by without the dog doing anything smart, and then four months, and then six months. But we knew it was only a matter of time before the dog did something that would really dazzle us.
I pictured him doing tricks or fetching the newspaper or barking furiously and awakening us in the middle of the night as gas fumes seeped into the house -- even though every time I looked over at him, he was sleeping.
"He's real smart," we'd tell anyone who stopped by.
"I'm sure he is," they all said.
"Yep, smart as a whip," we'd say.
"What kinds of smart things does he do?" they'd ask.
"Oh, you know," we'd say.
Then there would be this long, uncomfortable silence as everyone stared at the dog sleeping in the corner, until finally my wife would say: "Well. Would anyone care for some coffee?"
In any event, the dog has now been with us for two years and has yet to do anything smart, which is getting to be a little annoying.
They say a watched pot never boils, and maybe that's the case here. Although my wife and I are leaning toward another theory.
Our theory is that the dog is just stupid. That theory has been gaining even more credence around my house, now that the neighbor's cat has been coming around to tease the dog.
Let me explain this situation for you as clearly as I can.
Every morning, we tie the dog to a tree in our backyard so he can get a little fresh air. The rope used to tie the dog is 20 feet long, a figure of some importance to the story.
Lately, this big black cat has been coming around whenever we put the dog out.
Naturally, as soon as the dog sees the cat, he takes off after her. He runs and runs and runs until suddenly -- WHAM! -- he runs out of rope and is yoked off his feet.
Now, you'd think that after one or two times of nearly choking to death, the dog would wise up.
You'd figure a little light bulb would go off somewhere in his pea brain and he'd think: Whoa, almost snapped my neck! Better not do that anymore.
But my dog apparently doesn't think this way.
My dog is so stupid that he chases after the cat five, six, seven times in a row and ends up choking and gagging every time. The only reason he finally stops is because his windpipe is now cocked at a 45-degree angle and he's about to pass out.
Meanwhile, the cat, of course, is having a ball.
In fact, the cat is so smart that what he does sometimes is position himself about 25 feet away from the dog.
The dog sees the cat, takes off like a Formula I racer, gets up to about 75 mph and -- WHAM! -- gets yanked up in the air again.
Then he ends up in a twisted heap at the cat's feet.
And the cat is like: God, you're stupid!
I don't know . . . I think back to all the smart dogs we used to hear about. Old Yeller, Rin Tin Tin, Lassie -- the list goes on and on.
During a typical day, Lassie would rescue Timmy from 30 feet of oozing quicksand, summon help for the old-timer caught in the mine-shaft cave-in, track the bad guys who held up the bank, fight off the bear that attacked Mrs. Martin as she hung out the wash, and open the barn door with her paw to free the terrified horses caught in the barn fire.
My dog, you can't even tie him in the backyard.
Because every time you tie him back there, you think: This might be the last time I see this stupid dog alive.