My Dog Is a Human Whisperer

On hope and pizza

I’m happily in the kitchen making myself a pizza.

And when you’ve lived with other people for a long time, having the space to cook exactly what you want—undisturbed, at your own pace and time, doing dishes (or not) as you please—is a profound and simple joy.

But there’s another thing that happens every time my wife and son go out of town—and I hate it.

I inherit the dog.

Please know, I’m not a dog hater. Especially of our dog—Trixie. She’s an adorable bundle of neurotic happiness and explosive “oh my god I thought I might not ever see you again” joy the instant I return from a twelve-minute trip to the store.

But when I start cooking in the kitchen she does this thing.

I call it the hope look.

Today I tried waiting until I was ready to cook, and then set out her evening meal to keep her busy before starting on my pizza. But only a few minutes later she’d inhaled the kibble and trotted over to where I was working at the counter, sat down—and with every ounce of her canine superpowers—attempted a psychic coup over my central nervous system—hoping she could will my arms, hands and fingers into feeding her some mysterious manna from counter-heaven.

I don’t think she even knows what I’ve got up here. The majority of it is the vegetables I’m frying up for the pizza—onions, mushrooms, pepper, broccoli—all things she’d turn tail at if they showed up in her bowl. She seems more interested in food when she doesn’t yet know what it is.

Or maybe it’s the cheese she smells. Truthfully, I don’t think it matters. As a dog—she was born to sleep, adore her human (my wife), wet her blanket at the mention of a walk, and hope for something more.

And that’s despite the fact that I have never (not even one time, I mean never) fed her off the counter in the kitchen—for the precise reason that I don’t want a dog boring holes into my heart with a pitiful longing stare that has the gravitational pull of Jupiter. I can feel my previously free will in the tractor beam of her attention, slowly getting sucked into her plaintive doggie orbit.

I can’t decide if this unapologetic beggar on my doorstep is pathetic or heroic—whether the undeterred capacity to imagine something better and to be willing to wait for it with unwavering presence should be rewarded or ignored.

She’s a dog whisperer in reverse. Training her human to hear the nearly inaudible frequency of hope.

Please.

Please.

Just gimme sumthin’ good.

Why do I find it this unnerving?

I’ll send her away and as much as I hate the look, once she’s out of the room, I can feel the emptiness by comparison. I feel the absence of hope. I feel its absence in me, in the world, and I wonder if that damn dog isn’t here for a reason that transcends the pleasure of mere doggie companionship. It’s almost like she’s here to make me uncomfortable with the paucity of my own hope.

So the next time she comes back again, I let her stay. I allow her to stare, confer to me a godly status, beaming her supernatural hope toward my food-rationing sovereignty, surrendered to my authority—but trying to usurp it at the same time with the poetic force of her longing.

She’s alive with the force of what could be; nourished by her expectations.

She’s eating hope.

Damn.

What if I could hope like that? What if I could live like that? Even without evidence that hope will work—just exuding it anyway. With full confidence that hope is worth radiating into the atmosphere regardless of the result.

My human whisperer dog is showing me that hope is a heady and palpable force—that it has presence, depth, and gravitas.

This is all going through my mind as I’m slicing orange peppers and mini bella mushrooms—frying them up, layering them on the pizza, and putting it all into the oven.

Eventually, the oven timer goes off.

I pull the pizza out and lay the bubbling trophy of my efforts on the counter. My mouth starts to water and my stomach rolls out an anticipatory grumble of gastronomic pleasure.

I’m king of my kitchen, soothed and comforted by not having to beg for what I want. I know what I like in a pizza, and I’ve carefully hit every note of color, texture, preparation, layering and baking to make it come out just like this.

I cut it eight ways, transfer the dripping cheese slices to my plate, lay out a cloth napkin, and move to our old oak table where I’ll enjoy that first hot bite. I chuckle as I lift the steaming wedge to my mouth, noticing that I’m hoping it will be good.

As I enjoy the first slice, Trixie comes up to the table, armed again with the shining example of her hope.

I swear, it’s not going to work.

But that doesn’t seem to matter to her. Hope is what matters.

And suddenly I find myself wondering if I ought to spend more time turning my attention to the Gods and hoping for things that are too big and wonderful to ever come true.

After all, you never know when God is going to give in and drop a heavenly scrap at your feet.

And in that moment, you can only hope you’ll be paying attention.