Conversing on the Couch with the Lesser Dane

We’re sitting on the couch about to watch more Only Murders, when Farley, our Lesser Dane, plops down between us.  I’m eating a brownie, but Farley has found me far less generous when it comes to sharing food.  He places his head on Nancy’s lap and begins the process.  

She never actually shares her food, either, since Farley has proven to be allergic to just about all ordinary foods, human and dog (another story).  Still, Nancy always seems to bring out the hopeful in him.  

Tonight she’s having a Hägên Dåzs Icē Crêäm Bār (Sorry, I may have gone a bit overboard with the diacritics).  Farley licks Nancy’s wrist.  Then he licks her leg.  Then he licks himself.  Clearly, the Hägên Dåzs Icē Crêäm Bār has inspired him.

“What is this remarkable creation you’re eating?” he wonders aloud.  To some, his utterance may have sounded more like,”SSSchluurp,” but Nancy assures me that I’m wrong. I have always had a tough time with foreign languages.

“Is that some sort of food on a stick?” he continues.  

“Yes, Farley.  It’s called an ice cream bar.”

“But, but, it’s really not a bar.  It’s really food on a stick, right? Right?”

He’s like a dog with a bone once he gets onto an idea.

“Yes, Farley. It’s food on a stick.  You’ve seen this before.”

“But, but, this is very interesting to me —”  He pauses briefly to slurp in a private area.  “You see —” Brief pause for an even more vigorous slurp.  “But, but, it’s genius.  You see, it combines two of my favorite things: food and sticks.”

“Yes, Farley.  It’s clever.”

“But I think this could really catch on in the dog world.  You see, dogs really love food…and sticks.  If you were to say, put food, let’s say steak, for example, on sticks, I think dogs would really like that.  It would be very popular.”

Farley has yet to reconcile himself with the sad truth that he cannot digest steak.  Nonetheless, he pushes on.  “We could, we could call it, “Food on a stick!”  He’s so proud of himself.  I hate to deflate him, but I do anyway.

“Farley, ‘Food on a Stick’ is a really lame name for a product. There’s nothing clever or catchy about it.”

“Dogs don’t need clever and catchy,” Farley counters.  “We’re more straightforward.  Tell us what it is.  We’ll decide if we like it.  Food, check.  Sticks, check.  I’ll buy it.”

“What about ‘Steaks and Sticks’?” I suggest.  “That’s got a little more flair, dontcha think?  What about  ‘Fish and Sticks’?  Or ‘Brisket and Branches’?”

Farley is not impressed.  “First of all, you said steaks.  Do you really mean that there might be more than one steak?  Don’t mislead your customers.  Second of all, don’t you think that’s a bit too specific?  I mean, you want a name with a little more flexibility.  What if you want to branch out to say…bacon on a stick or pepperoni on a stick or acorns on a stick? (Farley loves a good acorn). ‘Food on a Stick’ allows you to be a bit more nimble.  You know, gives you that pivot option.”  

I sigh.  It’s hard to argue with Farley’s logic or his keen business sense, especially since everything he says sounds like schlurp to me.

So, Food on a Stick it is.  Look for it in pet stores near you, or wherever ‘Food in a Bag’ and ‘Food in a Can’ are sold.

Engaging in Dialogues

I’m wondering about memory again.  It’s amazing to me that I can have trouble retrieving the first name of a neighbor we’ve known for 15 years, but then just a few minutes later, I’ll remember something far more obscure from 50 years ago.  Fortunately, I now have a use for some of those hoarded memories.

We’re going to a wedding in Mexico in the spring.  I won’t forget to go, because it’s my nephew’s wedding…and because the airline tickets are non-refundable and non-cheap…and because my wife will remind me.  She already remembered that we needed to renew our passports.  She’s on the ball with these things.  The Mexican wedding, in the small town of my nephew’s bride-to-be, of course reminded me of my limited knowledge of Spanish.  Yes, I took Spanish for five years, but I didn’t take it very seriously.  I started in seventh grade, for one thing, and my junior high was a bit of a teenage wasteland.  As students, our goal seemed to be to do as little work as possible.  I continued my studies in high school, where our grades suddenly “counted.” We upgraded our goals accordingly.  Our new aim was to look like we were doing as little work as possible.  

Somehow, though, a few things from 7th and 8th grade Spanish penetrated those walls of teen apathy and became lodged permanently in the recesses of my cranium.  I’m speaking of the dialogues we had to memorize and recite with a partner every week. 

If only my nephew’s fiance was named Susanna (she’s not), because I’d be all set to knock on the door of her parents’ house and rattle off this casual convo (assuming her parents knew to play along):

Me:  ¿Está Susanna en casa?

Nephew’s Wife’s Parents:  Sí, está con una amiga  (Probablamente una bridesmaid, I’m thinking.)

Me:  ¿Dónde está, en la sala?

Nephew’s Wife’s Parents:  No, en la cocina.  

At this point, I’ll smile, nod, and push past them to the kitchen, since that was the end of that particular dialogue.  I’m feeling pretty good about how that’s going to improve our travel experience, not to mention how it will undoubtedly impress her family.

That dialogue, the first one we learned in 7th grade, is the only one that I remember in its entirety.  The others I remember only as fragments, but I’m pretty sure they will come in handy as well.  For example, at the hotel,  I will be ready with a suitably irate retort should any of the staff attempt to straighten our room.  I’m really looking forward to shouting, “¡Ay caramba, cuando arregla mi cuarto no encuentro nada!”  That was an expression that came in quite handy over the years, from rants directed toward my room-straightening mom (who only spoke English and French) or toward the referees on TV (who had trouble hearing me and therefore could not assess any unsportsmanlike conduct penalties or wonder why I was accusing them of cleaning my room).  

I’m really hoping that there will be lots of noisy kids at the reception so I can respond to their yelling with this handy sentence from the Spanish memory bank, “Como gritas hijo.  No estamos sordas.”  That’s the royal estamos, which I’m pretty sure I can pull off.  If that one doesn’t produce the desired effect, though, I’ll whip out the Mexican truism that Señora Posner (8th grade) taught us:  “En boca cerrada no entran moscas.”  

Some would say that perhaps it would be worth taking a little time out of the 200 or so days between now and the wedding to log onto Duolingo and freshen up my vocabulary.  Maybe, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got things covered.   If we get lost in my niece-in-law’s cocina or find ourselves in hot water with the hotel staff, and can’t make it to the wedding, there’s always this to fall back on, “Vamos a las carreras de perros. ¡Apurate, ya casi empieza!