I was thumbing through the latest issue of Urban Dog magazine, as I do every Don’t Make Your Bed Day (December 21, which I celebrate every day), when I happened upon an item about a popular drug that allegedly cures separation anxiety.
When I read this item, I leapt for joy, believing science had finally found a remedy for the affliction I suffer from whenever college football season ends.
The leap for joy is not something I do often, and I hurt my back.
Upon further investigation in the waiting room of the doctor’s office, I found I wasn’t eligible for treatment with this newfangled narcotic. My ineligibility has nothing to do with my sex, height, weight, criminal record, or addiction to paste in grammar school. I’m not eligible because I am not a dog – technically (in this state).
According to the report I read, the drug is for dogs who suffer from separation anxiety, and not for lazy humans. The story said the medicine is used by canines coupled with therapy sessions. Yes, therapy sessions.
No matter what the psychology community says, through my own extensive research, I know that dogs can’t talk.
I’ve tried and tried to communicate with them in my native tongue – American. And every time I try to open the lines of communication, they look at me with the same exact blank stare I used to see when I would ask my son who put my wristwatch in the toilet.
With no mode of communication, how do we know if dogs suffer from separation anxiety? Because they look sad?
If that’s the case, then every basset hound in the world suffers from this doggy disorder.
And how do we know a sad dog suffers from separation anxiety? They could be sad because they forgot where they hid that tantalizing t-bone, or because their girlfriend left them for a German Shepherd with a fancy doghouse, or because “Oh, Heavenly Dog” was a box-office bomb in 1981.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against psychology or psychiatry or even podiatry, for humans, dogs, or any venue of varmint. Real people, and dogs, with real problems certainly need professional help, or friends.
But, most of the dogs in my neighborhood seem very content as they dig through my garbage or chase me down the street.
Giving these “scientists” the benefit of the doubt, I went to see a neighbor’s dog to get the “dog on the street” perspective.
Our conversation went as follows: Me: “Hey, puppy. Come here, puppy.”
Dog: “Grrrr.” Me: (holding out a chuck roast) “Come here, puppy. Time to eat.”
Dog comes to me quickly, wagging its tail. It devours the meat in two bites, then looks up at me, panting for more (apparently, but what do I know? I’m no dog psychologist).
Me: “Are you sad, doggy? Do you have separation anxiety? Do you need a pill and some therapy?”
Again, the no-talking thing, coupled with the vacant stare. Then he runs off, and attempts to mate with the bumper of my car.
Cured?
• Len Robbins is the editor of The Clinch County News. He can be reached at lrobbins@clinchcounty news
