A LIKELY STORY: MAKING LITTLE PILES AND A FEW NEW FRIENDS

When I talk about walking the dog, I only wish I was referring to cute yo-yo tricks.

They say it's a dog-eat-dog world. In the strange, eclectic world of literally "walking the dog," the dictum could be re-worded to say something like "It's a man-walk-dog world," or maybe "It's a dog-meet-dog-so-they-can-sniff-each-other's-butts world."

With a nervous "I do" came the unanticipated responsibility of occasionally walking my wife's pet, Sophie, whom I have mentioned in this space before. I knew about the love, honor and cherish aspects of marriage from the vague nuptials.

Silly naive me. I thought we were talking about each other. Turns out Lori, with tears of love in her eyes, thought we were talking about her dog. Apparently, I was just a new recruit, sanctioned under the eyes of God no less, to help my wife take care of her dog's intestinal requirements.

Lori's quest for a medical degree leaves her little time to walk this dog that is suddenly part mine. (I find it ironic, however, that the checkbook is still all hers. Go figure.)

She tells me the dog loves me and I should love the dog, too. I don't think so; the only thing I've ever noticed this dog loving is the taste of her own privates.

Anyway, the responsibility of walking this stubby, mangy, nappy, one-eyed dog has become something of a ritual for me. Many days during my lunch hour I drive a whole two blocks home to complete this menial chore.

At first walking the dog was something I did begrudgingly while thinking about ways that I might lose this aggravating chore by somehow "eliminating the negative." You know, in a lake, off a bridge or under a Mack truck tire going 75 miles an hour; something painful yet highly effective.

But I have come to accept my part in taking care of Sophie. I've been doing this for over a month now and I've come to learn I'm not alone in my dilemma; I see several frowning men being led around by their dogs.

I can tell from their strained, weathered faces that they are plotting fates for their canines similar to the ones I mentioned earlier.

Over time, I have come to know these men and have noticed that we all have varied ways of doing our thing. James, a short, balding man whom I met by a tree/urinal, lets his dog walk him. The dog, a portly yet obviously strong creature, pulls Bill all over the park, going wherever he wants, oblivious to his master's desires and intentions.

When the dog finally finds a spot he likes, he squats. And there's no moving him. I once noticed James' dog taking a nap in the same spot two days in a row. James was next to him, dutifully, pulling on his leash, with anguished tears in his eyes, begging the dog to budge.

I suspected then, though I never mentioned it, that James had spent the entire night there, trying to persuade that dog to come home. Obviously he couldn't go home without the dog. That would put him in the doghouse ... so to speak.

And then there's Joey, a nice enough guy who just moved here with his wife from New York. Joey's a good guy but he's not exactly a mental giant.

Joey is a fairly big guy (muscular big, not fat big) and he and his wife have a teeny tiny poodle that can't weigh more than 10 pounds. Joey "air walks" his dog.

By this I mean that Joey literally lifts the front end of his dog off the ground by the leash much of the time while on their routine excursion. Joey never looks down, smiling out at whatever mental void people like Joey console themselves in.

Meanwhile, the dog begins to wave her front paws wildly as her eyes get bigger, tongue extruding from her mouth. Just when I think the dog is going to faint from a lack of oxygen, Joey gives her just enough leash to regain footing and catch her breath. Several minutes pass and they go through the whole process again.

Being the kind-hearted individual I am, I mentioned it to Joey and he informed me that dogs breathe partly through their tongues. "That's why they have them sticking out like that," he told me.

"Oh yeah?" was all I could manage.

My new friends and I don't make much conversation while our dogs do their things. What do you say to a civilized adult while their pets are sniffing each other in a place that was never meant for a nose?

Should we just follow suit? And how would we do this in the park without getting arrested? And isn't that presuming a bit much?

Shouldn't I at least buy him dinner first?

~Scott Moyers is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.