I sit in the backyard half reading a book on dog biology and half watching Fleegle and Franny wrestle in the fresh cut grass. After a while, they tire and start chewing on a long stick, one on either end. Franny is now seven months old and still substantially smaller than Fleegle, especially her head.
I put my book down. “You know, Fleegle, looking at you next to Franny makes me realize just how big your head is. I swear, it’s almost as big as mine.”
Fleegle lets go of the stick. “No, Raud, it’s bigger than yours, especially in the part that counts, my brain. The size of my brain makes yours look like a peanut.”
“Shelled or unshelled?” Franny asks.
I hold the book up in my lap. “This here book about dogs says your brain is the size of a walnut.”
Fleegle tilts his head to the side. “And who wrote this book? A dog?”
“Of course not.”
“Exactly. Just more lies to cover up the biggest lie of them all, that people have more than a peanut for a brain. You’ve heard the saying, ‘victoribus spolia’?”
“Um, no, I haven’t.”
“It’s a Latin quote from Julius Cesar’s dog, Maximus Canis, and it translates as ‘To the victors go the spoils.’”
“Actually, the phrase is attributed to a Jacksonian Democrat in the presidential election of 1828 after Andrew Jackson won the presidency.”
“Which is my point. The winner writes the history books,” he says.
I set my book down again. “So if dogs have such big brains, why are the peanut brains running the world?”
Fleegle shakes his head sadly at me. “Oh, Raud, the peanut brains only think they do. Your brains don’t have the capacity to understand the bigger picture of what’s really going on. You’re just a small part of a vast social experiment us dogs are conducting, but don’t worry, I’ll write up my report on you as favorably as I can.” He licks his lips. I sense a request for a bribe is coming. “Within limits, that is.”
Franny looks over at Fleegle. “So is peanut butter really brain butter from people? I don’t want anymore of that in my Kong if it is.”