It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [81]
That reasoning aside, the truth of the matter is that I thought it would rock to have my dog’s DNA tested, and I really am that kind of asshole who would write out a check for the amount of her weekly grocery budget in order to attain that bragging right.
But when I mentioned to the girls at the doggy day care how excited I was that I’d ordered the DNA kit, they advised me not to include a photo of my dog, as the kit encourages you to do, despite the claim that it’s to attach to the photo area on your dog’s Certificate of DNA when the results are returned to you. The girls informed me that according to their other clients—who were also apparently big enough assholes to write out seventy-five-dollar checks and rub a giant cotton swab all over their dogs’ mouths—when the results came back, the dogs with photos enclosed were determined to be of lineage very much in line with their appearance. The kits that were returned sans photos, however, had results that were all over the map. A toy poodle was determined to be 50 percent German shepherd. A German shepherd was relayed to be 76 percent cocker spaniel. A corgi was actually a Siberian husky. I held back on the photo and trusted that we had not eaten spaghetti with butter for the last week in vain.
I have to say that, despite the reports of DNA testing run afoul, I still had hope when I ripped open the envelope that I wasn’t a mark, a sucker, a rube, and that Maeby’s heritage would be mapped out very clearly for me across the page. Sure enough, there it was, the document that detailed how my fluffy tan-and-white dog with her huge sweeping tail was mostly Doberman, and whatever part of her wasn’t Doberman was boxer. After the report, I wasn’t allowed to make any household decisions aside from blue or red Charmin for a very, very long time (and this may be insignificant to some, but we’ve been told that certain friends look forward to parties at our house because of the quality of our toilet paper. I’m not sure what that says about my snacks of celebration or hostess abilities, but if you want a smooth transaction after you’ve been drinking and eating finger foods, you know where to go).
But when I had to tell my husband that I’d ordered the dog translator, I knew things had to be different than they were with the DNA test.
“I think we might be able to crack the code of the hysterical bark,” I insisted, showing him the ad as he frowned at the spaghetti dripping with butter that he’d twirled around his fork. “The website says that ‘the Animal Emotion Analysis System analyzes the bark and determines the most accurate translation.’ It’s one of Time magazine’s inventions of the year!”
When it arrived the following week via UPS, there was no containing me. I brought it into my office and dove into the package, ripping it apart like it was a meal. This magnificent invention—the one that was going to save me from answering the door armed with an apology every single time—was right at my fingertips and was anxious to help us reach a solution. The package came with an instruction booklet, which somehow flipped out of the box and slid under the elliptical machine, where I would have to get up to reach it.
Well, now, that’s a shame, I thought as I looked at it for several seconds, knowing it was gone forever. “I bet that would have come in handy.”
I moved on to the shiny red parts of the package, which looked like a little walkie-talkie, and then another small oval piece, which looked as if it had something of a microphone embedded in it. From the look of the box, the oval part slid onto the dog’s collar, and the walkie-talkie was the receiver and translator.
I wasted no time and got right to work. I attached the microphone to Maeby’s collar, put the receiver in front of me, and waited.
“Maeby,” I commanded her. “Bark!”
Maeby looked at me for a moment, then put her head down and took a nap.
When my husband came home, I was very excited to show him our problem-solver, and he looked it over skeptically.
“How is this supposed to tell us what she’s barking?” he asked.