ALFRED

Hello, two-leggers.

I’m Alfred—self-appointed professor of canine psychology, specialist in behavioral disasters, and the Mozart of dog minds (if I may say so). I didn’t earn these titles at some university, but rather while snoring at the feet of The Therapist, my owner. Since I was eight weeks old—between ear scratches and belly rubs—I’ve spent hours every day listening to The Therapist dispense brilliant advice to her human clients. I figured, why shouldn’t I give advice to humans too?

My field research has revealed that dog-human communication doesn’t always run smoothly, and countless misunderstandings arise between our species. For instance, I don’t understand why The Therapist is shocked that the refrigerator door opening can wake me from the deepest sleep. She, on the other hand, doesn’t understand why I chewed up her diploma when I was a few months old.

You might think, dear reader—and I’m quite certain The Therapist thought this too—that it was professional jealousy. But nooo. She simply wasn’t paying attention to me all day, and I was bored. I had to occupy myself somehow. My boredom reached such depths that I didn’t even feel like barking at the mailman anymore. And believe me, that wild creature deserves it—I can clearly smell the neighbor’s German Shepherd all over him. How can anyone be friends with a German Shepherd?! A GERMAN SHEPHERD…

Speaking of mailmen, they’ve always struck me as suspicious. How is it possible that someone comes almost daily but never stays? Something’s not right here… Don’t you find this odd?! Seriously, though… I study the mailman-phenomenon with scientific rigor. During these observations, I’m nearly impossible to distract. I don’t even care if The Therapist throws me a ball… ball… baaallll… Excuse me, just a moment… Don’t go anywhere! Baaaallll…

By the way, I don’t understand why they throw the ball when they know I’ll just bring it back. Is this logical?! Do you throw balls for your dogs too? 

My research is, needless to say, extensive. For example, I’ve documented everything about the art of the longing gaze after petting. Preferably sitting position, head slightly lowered, eyes looking up just enough to make your eyebrows shift upward. This creates a melancholy expression, and you’re guaranteed to get petted or have a treat drop your way. Outwardly vulnerable, inwardly cackling with devilish glee.

I thought I could manipulate this ragtag therapist anytime—I never believed in her competence—but unfortunately, she caught on to my tactics rather quickly. Maybe she actually is good at her job? Maybe I was wrong? I’m not used to being wrong! Though, I suppose it’s possible—just possible—that I gave myself the professor title. But someone has to bring order to the jungle of misunderstandings between dogs and humans, right?

My field research also includes observations of how my fellow dogs behave with their owners during walks. I saw a poodle jumping around in a panic while its owner talked on the phone. I saw a dachshund who stopped at every tree, then seemed baffled when the leash pulled tight. Or there was that Yorkie who’d pick a fight with a lamppost, yet according to his owner, he was the gentlest soul in the world. Complete chaos. Have you witnessed similar chaos? I concluded that one key to a happy dog-and-human life is proper communication and attention. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that The Therapist emphasizes this so often to her clients. Not that this diminishes my own discoveries, of course. In fact, I had to draw her attention to this very issue, so I began training her.

I barked in a manner utterly unbecoming of a golden retriever—whether the situation called for it or not. I sat in the middle of the room and barked. I walked around the apartment and barked. I lay on my back and still barked. If I looked out the window and spotted a squirrel, I barked… though, to be fair, I bark at squirrels anyway. I’d catch every last one of them!

I attempted to escape home multiple times, like a beagle. The plan was simple: when The Therapist opened the door to go to the store, I’d dart out between her legs. I succeeded once or twice, but never got far—she’d catch me by the ear. I also tried peeing in the apartment, like a chihuahua. Not my proudest moment, but I had to get her attention somehow. And when I tired of barking, I began to sing. I knew my voice was beautiful because the next day during our walk, the opera singer husky who lives at the end of the street gave me an approving look as he passed by. I was quite proud of myself.

The Therapist finally realized that if she paid attention to me—not just to her clients—and we went running, took longer walks, or she taught me tricks with treats, we could live happily together. Our lives changed within a few weeks.

With all this experience behind me, I’ve decided to accept my fate and become a bridge between two species, two worlds. A sturdy bridge between a world where humans behave inconsistently and dogs behave instinctively. It won’t be easy, but who’s better suited for this than me? So here I am. I’m going to explain to you, two-leggers, what your dog actually wants. Because you’ll never figure it out on your own. Believe me, I’ve watched you try. It was painful to witness. If you listen to me, you’ll better understand what your dog is telling you, and he can peacefully chew his stick in the backyard.

Stick… stiiiick… Excuse me, I need to go now… Stiiiiiick!

Professor Alfred
Fetch Maniac

Ham

Yo, food lovers!

I’m Ham, head of this blog’s food testing department, experienced gastronomic adventurer.

I might be mini-sized, but in this body, only my stomach is bigger than my heart and my bark. These are actually what got me dumped on the street as a puppy… When I was just a few weeks old, I barked at a piece of garlic falling from the table, then threw myself at it and swallowed it the second it hit the ground. And the second I swallowed it, they rushed me to the vet. But it was worth it—garlic is food too, and every flavor deserves a chance. Was I supposed to let it just sit there on the floor, all sad? That day I learned two things: I like garlic way more than garlic likes dogs. If my first owners hadn’t had a list of toxic foods for dogs on their fridge, I’d probably be pushing up daisies by now. Or rather, the devil would be pushing them up—I’d be eating them from below. The other thing I learned is that humans don’t appreciate constantly hauling their dogs to the vet. They didn’t haul me there more than 23, maybe 24 times… in a single month… That last time, they took me to the street instead of the vet. And left me there.

The street, for a dog, is all about survival. Danger lurks around every corner, moldy sausage in every dumpster. Though in my opinion, expiration dates are suggestions, not obstacles. Doesn’t matter if the scorching summer pavement burns your paws. Doesn’t matter if you’re soaked for days in pouring rain… Oh god, wet dog smell… Have you ever smelled anything worse? I haven’t, and I’ve raided plenty of rank dumpsters. Only one thing matters on the street: a growling dog stomach. And when a dog’s stomach growls, Ham truly growls.

For weeks I ate mysterious fallen fruit from unknown trees that even the birds looked at with disgust. I fought rats over scraps of cheese. One of them, George, I actually grew kind of fond of, but we never became friends. Let’s just say we tolerated each other. The street connected us.

One day I was walking behind a restaurant and saw an employee tossing out leftovers. I figured I’d use my superpower—swallowing food whole before it hits the ground. But I didn’t account for the fact that I’d barely eaten in days, making me weaker and slower. Around restaurants, there are gang wars over food between dogs, cats, and birds. The area was suspiciously quiet, even though everyone knows when the dumpsters get refilled. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should risk it, but I figured—if you live without risk, you’re not really living. So I ran toward the scraps as fast as I could. As I opened my mouth, I closed my eyes, already imagining the taste of roasted chicken skin. But then suddenly I felt a blow, and I was sprawled on the asphalt three border collies away from the food. I could only open one eye, and only halfway. I watched as the neighborhood’s most ruthless cat, Red Tofu, gave me an evil look while snatching the prize from the ground and running off with it. I was starving. I didn’t know which was louder—my snoring or my stomach growling. According to George the rat, both were unbearable. I don’t know what his problem is—his breath stinks anyway.

Then it started to rain… Great, just what I needed, I thought. Now I’ll smell myself for days again. I closed my eyes and figured I’d wait for death. If nothing else, at least I’d eat him.

I don’t know how much time passed between waiting for death and rising toward the sky, but when I opened my eyes, I was already pretty high up. I nearly crapped myself seeing the ground getting farther away. I didn’t even know dogs could have a fear of heights. I figured I couldn’t go to heaven covered in crap. Then someone started talking to me in a deep, rumbling voice—I was certain this was God. At first I barked loudly, trying to explain that not even He could tell me what I can and can’t eat. But I barely had the strength to bark anymore, and I passed out again.

When I came to, I found myself in a house, freshly bathed. For the first time in weeks, I could see my beautiful gray coat. There was a bandage on my nose because that bastard Tofu got me with his claw right where it hurts most. But even that bandage couldn’t stop the wonderful smells filling the house from reaching my nose. That’s what really brought me around. Looking around, I saw I was lying on a comfortable dog bed. Next to me were water and food, which of course I immediately attacked and swallowed in less than 3 seconds. And then I started barking… I don’t know why, I just barked and barked. Nonstop.

Hearing the barking, a massively huge human approached me, which made me bark even more frantically. I thought, if he gets any closer, I’ll eat him right up. But then he just gently picked me up and started petting me. I was so moved that I even lost the urge to bark. I just stared at him with big eyes. Like I was looking at a massive chicken leg. Okay fine, I did let out one more bark. The man put me in his lap after settling into his rocking chair, and from that day on, that’s how we rock every evening. The two of us together.

Turns out Big Guy’s hobby is cooking and his everything is eating. So during the day I help him in the kitchen. I eat anything that heads toward the floor and immediately bark my opinion. And of course I hang around his feet all day, so I see what he’s doing. I know how much salt he puts in the food and what temperature he bakes at, or when he burns things. I’ve seen it all—the magnificent and the catastrophic. Of course I have to bark instructions too, because honestly I don’t think he’s a very good cook. Trust me, I’ve eaten his cooking. But at least he loves me and feeds me. So here I am. I’ve tasted everything I could, everything I shouldn’t have. I’ve eaten from dumpsters, off asphalt, from George’s plate, even from Tofu’s cat food. From now on, I’ll be testing what YOU feed your dogs. Because if I survived 50 dumpsters, I can tell you what’s actually edible and what even Red Tofu would spit out.Trust me, I don’t turn down food. Ever.

Ham
Official Taste Tester & Eternally Hungry