“Call the dog Sirius Black,” I suggested, mostly in jest.  The man who was a dog.  That rings oddly true for my dear puppy Scout.  I swear, if dogs had organized religion, and thus had rabbis, that would be Scout.  Her eyes are wise, and she looks almost through you, as though she knows something you don’t.  I am of course talking about a creature that eats canned turkey goo as though it is gourmet, so what does she know?  I don't know.  Perhaps human society is missing this great innovation.  Anyways, I probably shouldn’t mention swearing and organized religion in one sentence, but this is about my dog, and insofar as I’m aware, she can’t read.  Maybe she can.  If any dog could, it would be her, she who shares a name with one of literature’s great protagonists.

You must be rolling your eyes at me.  Perhaps suggesting that I am the lost psychedelic-era Beatle, or something equally crazy.  No reader, I am as rational as pi, which is to say not very, but still quite interesting and useful nonetheless.  You would think what I said is silly, and that might be true, but that means you’ve never met Scout.  She’s something out of a cartoon, a comic book character, a dog from a Disney movie who speaks in growls that sound like words.  She does that actually- speak- crying into the wee hours of the morning “waa waa,” mama!

Scout with her round face, covered in midnight black fur, the black of space and galaxies, the black of that one weird off-brand Darth Vader figure that looks blueish, black that catches the light and sparkles as she pulls off the once-impossible feat of catching her tail.  Her eyes are rendered nearly imperceptible by this background, yet if you look carefully, they shine just for you with an odd wisdom.  She looks to be on the brink of some great realization, pondering what the meaning of life is beyond 42.  She’s moments away from cracking the code, when suddenly she catches a glimpse of an ever-tantalizing sock.  Oh well, all great thinkers are subject to the limitations of their species.  Under the gleaming eyes sit a perfect black nose, adorable but nevertheless one of few ordinary features on a fairly strange little puppy.  The bottom half of her face does not match the top- why would it?  Too boring, too passé, too much like everyone else.  Her two-tone face is cream white on the bottom, caught in between the color of a polar bear and the color of a well-loved old book.  She flings this perfect head, framed by flopping Dumbo ears, back as she eats, a hedonistic Roman emperor enjoying his gala, a New Yorker watching Seinfeld.  When she deigns to eat, she attacks her food with the passion of a thousand suns.  Occasionally, she growls at it, for how dare it not obey her, the majestic Scout of that one corner of the bedroom.  Her little torso, rounded by a diet consisting solely of aforementioned turkey goo and treats, looks like it belongs to a cow or a Doppler radar, not a puppy.  Her fur is straighter than one would expect of a dog that is indeed part poodle (isn’t everyone), but it groups into fluffy curls.  She curls like a ferret, a snake, a viscous fluid, something gross from an old science-fiction film.  Her legs are little and short, not meant for real running.  When she runs, she gallops, two front feet followed by hind feet, desperate to keep up in a world that was not built for her.  

Her paws are as out of the ordinary as the rest of her.  Like her little behind that appears to be forever wearing bermuda shorts, or her feet that are a different color than her belly.  Her front paw looks more like a human hand than anything else.  I propose several theories to explain her thumb claw, scratchy, more velociraptor than dog.  At least that matches her ferocious roar, a snarl from low in her little throat, nyeh.  Nyeh, how come I cannot grip this with my thumb!  Nyeh, mama how could you move your foot, dragging me across the kitchen with you, my teeth latched to your sock!  Nyeh, the indignance of sitting on the floor!  I got sidetracked.  That commercial break was brought to you by Scout.  Come to Scout’s crate today for the best half-chewed Dixie cups in town!  Anyways, back to my pressing scientific theories about her thumb.  I first thought that she had polydactyly, proud to have made a conclusion about this issue in that annoying way that high schoolers who’ve taken one biology class think that they know everything.  I rethought the Punnett square, and as a carefully bred dog, that makes no sense, seeing as polydactyly is a dominant trait.  That brings me to my second, far more convincing theory.  Scout must be the next step in the evolution of Canis lupus familiaris!  She has thumbs aplenty and her paw pads are the pinkish color of a little kid who holds on to playground equipment on a hot day.  My third theory is my absolute favorite.  Scout is a human trapped in a dog.  Her knowing eyes, her bushy eyebrows, perpetually furrowed in indignation (wouldn’t you feel that way too if you had to do your shall we say business on a piece of paper), her thumbs and her love of eating off spoons and drinking from bottles.  Scout, my beloved puppy.  Scout, the dog who could be a person.