Dogs Are Smarter than People

IT WAS a sticky-hot August afternoon when my wife and I slid onto stools at the Mojave Inn and ordered beers to wash the desert dust from our parched throats. As the bubbly brew gurgled down our gullets, we listened to a very sad story. It seemed that Nell (she owned the inn) had a ten-day-old pup which was the sole survivor of a family tilt with a ten-ton truck, and she sought a suitable home for the orphan. She cited our fine reputation for love and understanding, while she nourished our capacity for commiserating with a few more beers. Our mood was mild and receptive by the time Nell brought out a squinty-eyed, wrinkly-faced bundle of fur, which my wife carefully cradled in her arms. We had a dog.