And Then I Said To Nobody, 'Who The Hell Am I Talking To?'

Sometimes I find myself talking to an invisible camera that doesn't exist, in front of a dog I can't be certain cares. And I'm earnestly trying to please them both.

In hindsight I'm less nervous when I'm playing to that crowd then when I pretend I'm completely alone. Or when I know I'm completely alone. So it serves a practical purpose. While I'm talking ridiculously kindly to a dog I know doesn't speak English, somewhere in my mind there must be an audience that does. Or there is, me. I am sometimes talking to myself. Through a dog or cat. If one is around.

Though, honestly, the dog clearly trusts me more the more I talk to her. We get along better. Sometimes she sits. Sometimes I can get her to go directions I'd like her to go. A couple of times tonight she not only chased the tennis ball, but picked it up briefly in her mouth. Those are the only two times I've seen this dog pick up something in its mouth. Which is crazy. Other dogs can't seem to stop picking things up. I said really encouraging things to her both times she actually got a hold of a tennis ball. She does have a tiny head. Maybe that's part of it.

But the dog does seem to like me more the more we talk. She paces less when I'm around. She'll even stop pacing and sit next to me awhile on the porch. And when I lie down in bed, she stops pacing and lies down too. Which, I should mention, is what she does with most of her free time. Pace.

She definitely doesn't get the stupid jokes I'm telling the camera. And that makes it easier on both of us.

The dog's great. It's very easy to talk to her. Being a dog, she expects very little. At least compositionaly. And I respect that. Or appreciate it. Both? I can risk talking nonsense, and not worry if it's annoying anyone.

The dog's great. And she seems happier to be here than she was when she first got here. She seems excited to see me when I get home. So I feel good about the whole thing.