While on vacation last week, I finally read The Art of Racing in the Rain, a book that had been recommended to me by many. (Given that there is a dog peeking out on the cover, it wasn’t a mystery why people thought I’d like it.)
The book is narrated by a dog. That premise might not be too unique, but what I loved was how self-aware this dog was. For example, it’s not just that he couldn’t effectively communicate with his family through language, but also why, and how that affects him emotionally.
Needless to say, I loved it. It’s all at once sweet, heart-breaking, dramatic, and poignant. Returning from my trip to my furry beasts, it also really gave me pause.
What was Rocky trying to tell me when he came up to check on me while I was drying my hair? Does Oliver really understand (more than a small fraction of) what I babble at him constantly? Are Martha’s nervous smiles and tail wagging indicative of something that happened in the house while I was outside?
I sometimes feel like I don’t give my animals enough credit. And at the risk of giving them too much credit, I’ve decided to assume they know what the hell I’m talking about as I ramble through my day. Mostly.