Oscar likes to play dumb. But we have learned that he is about as dumb as a fox.
In the mornings, he knows I like to sip my tea on the sofa. He stares at me, relentlessly, until I pat the cushion next to me and say “up” to encourage him to join me. While I work on opening my other eye, he backs up a few steps, then hesitates a moment, as if uncertain he can make it. This elicits encouraging comments from me: “T’es capable, mon beau! Viens-t-en!” (“You can do it, Handsome. Come on up!”) Never mind that he has no problem jumping up onto much higher objects like the picnic tables at the park. But hey, it’s morning. He just woke up.
He then takes a running start, followed by a mighty leap, landing with a whump at the other end of the sofa. Having succeeded at this Herculean feat, he receives praise and a scratch behind the ear. Not bad for a quick trick.
He then paces in a circle three times, apparently weaving some cryptic canine spell, scratches twice, and finally settles at the other end of the sofa near my feet. I find all this endearing. He loves me. He wants to keep me company. So I give his neck a rub. Which usually turns into more of a full-body massage as I gaze out the window staring at nothing.
He waits until I get up for something. Then he scuttles on over to the warm spot where I was sitting, which also, incidentally, has a view onto the street below.
Upon my return, he doesn’t even lift his head. Just swivels his eyes up at me, and gives me a look as if to say, “What? You left, you lose.”
If I try to shoo him back down to the other end, I get backtalk—a disgruntled whine—as he jumps down in a huff. Apparently he’d rather not be on the sofa at all now. He then sulks his way over to his bed and curls up with his rear to me. I suspect this is canine for ‘flipping the bird.’
Fine, I think. That’s the way you want to be? No more scratches for you. I mosey on into the next room (my office) to start my work day.
Five minutes later, I hear an unmistakable “whump” as a certain four-legged creature lands squarely back on the sofa.
Ten minutes later, he’s on his back, snoring.
So, you tell me. Does that sound like a dumb dog?