The Public Eye

printed 12/16/2022

The dog formerly known as Crazy Eddie is still with us, bless his odd little heart.

He reached his 13th birthday sometime this year, although we can’t be certain of the date because of his questionable origins and because the veterinarian says sawing him in half to count his rings is not a procedure he would recommend.

We would not, of course, saw Edward J. Dog, as he is occasionally referred to, in half because we don’t care how old he is or isn’t. All we know is that over his many years he has developed into one odd little fellow.

Most household pets have their quirks it seems, but canines definitely lead the pack in that regard.

We had one, Cisco, who despised wheelbarrows. Absent any explanation for this intense dislike, my theory was that he had been accosted by a rogue wheelbarrow during his youth in the city.

Another household companion, Stella, routinely hid food, toys and other canine knickknackery under the pillows on the bed.

If there is an upside to that, it would be that having a chew toy close at hand is Option A on a sleepless night when you’re tempted to pass the time by watching a shopping channel.

Hmmmm, you wonder, will it be “Shoe Shopping with Jane” or gnawing on rawhide?

Sure, I’ve seen that show on QVC, but I never bought anything ... I swear it.

As for Edward J. Dog, he’s transitioned from squeaky ball to oddball. For instance, there’s the water bowl. He hates it, won’t drink from it, won’t get near it. He stares at it and then looks up as if to say, “Come with me if you want to live!”

I don’t get it. We set up a second water bowl, which he also has begun avoiding for reasons unknown, except that it’s not quite as dangerous as the kitchen bowl, which apparently houses the devil.

These days, he loads up outside wherever standing water can be found. That includes a bowl on the porch that he shares with a dozen cardinals, who use it for everything. Suffice to say he isn’t a stickler for sanitation.

Also, as most dogs will do eventually, he’s developed selective hearing.

“Eddie, come!” Nothing. “HEY! EDDIE!” Nothing. “Eddie-Eddie-Eddie!” Nada.

It’s been suggested that he might have lost some of his hearing, although I doubt it, given the bullet train he becomes at the mention of “snack.” Or worse, “cheese,” the utterance of which results in more of a nuclear missile in terms of speed.

We also have a pair of identical steps that lead to the kitchen. One set good, one set evil. And lately, he’s become uncertain about the dividing line between the brick walk and the concrete strip leading from that to the back door. He walks up the bricks to the line, and then sprints across the concrete as if something is after him.

Maybe he sees things we don’t, and that somewhere in the hidden dimensions that only dogs can see their lurks myriad water bowls out to get us all. On the other hand, maybe, like the rest of us dealing with the aging process, certain preferences fade and other things start to click.

Take, for instance, “Shoe Shopping With Jane....”

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