Spot the Human

This is the legend of Curly the Cavapoo.

On one day of one month of one year, none of which are important, Curly was cursed with human-like intelligence (which is to say, hardly any, but more than he had before). He also gained an ability which humans often confuse with intelligence: speech.

Intelligence and speech were not to Curly’s liking, particularly once he discovered that people did not obey him like he obeyed them.

“Speak,” Curly said to his human, whom he now dubbed Spot on account of his many pimples.

Spot did not speak, but rather stared at Curly with his mouth hanging open, his eyes bulging. It was not flattering. Curly repeated himself, a little more firmly this time, and Spot gave a sort of strangled squeak; at least, Curly thought charitably, he was trying.

“Sit! Stay!”

Spot did not sit; he ran away. It was then that Curly realized his mistake: it was quite early in Spot’s training. He required an incentive. Thinking quickly, Curly selected his most prized possession, a long- and well-loved stuffed rhinoceros, and followed at his human’s heels.

“You know, you’re a little old for this kind of behavior,” Curly said. His words were somewhat muffled but the toy (which suddenly did not taste as good as he remembered), but he felt he was still making his point. Besides, it was only fair; Spot talked with his mouth full all the time, and Curly listened. “Stay, Spot.”

Finally, some progress was made. Spot stopped, and he stayed.

“Good boy!” Curly relinquished the rhinoceros as a reward.

“Did you just call me Spot?” said Spot.

“Of course,” Curly replied. “That’s your name.”

“My name is Casey.”

“Since when?”

“Since always!”

“I’ve never called you Casey. What does that even mean?”

“It doesn’t mean anything, it’s what my mother called me!”

Curly pondered this. Had his mother called him something? He could not remember, but found the idea embarrassing.

“All right, Casey,” he said. He supposed he must concede some ground for the sake of a more significant issue: “We need to talk about your toxic relationship with the mailman.”

“My what?”

“Don’t play innocent with me,” Curly pointed accusingly at Spot’s kneecap (this was as high as he could point). “You know you trust him too easily. I can tell by how defensive you get when I try to protect you from him.”

“This is insane.”

“I know he brings us treats sometimes,” Curly continued, trying his best to remain reasonable. One of them had to. “But that doesn’t give him the right to just waltz up to our front door, all hours of the day, with mysterious packages!”

“You don’t need to protect me from the mailman – I ordered those packages, and I know what’s in them.”

Curly recalled vividly at least ten occasions on which Spot had shaken a package (“the hell… did I order this?”) and told him as much. Did he not see that this was self-destructive behavior, that the mailman could not be trusted?

In response, Spot made a series of theatrical gestures, muttered something about calling his therapist, and retreated to his room. Curly could not help himself – he attempted to follow, but was met with the resounding slam of Spot’s bedroom door. This was hurtful, but nothing Curly could not tolerate; there were many days when Spot closed doors between himself and his best friend. Spot was, as Curly understood it, permanently and tragically enslaved to an overlord known as Job.

“You know I’m right,” said Curly.

Rhinoceros in mouth and nose held high, he returned to his bed in the kitchen and, having circled thrice, laid down.

“You’re lucky, Spot,” Curly said, huffing with tired satisfaction of a difficult job well done. “That I’m not too smart to love you.”