I used to daydream that my dogs understood me when I spoke to them. I’d make up their responses and speak out loud for them in a goofy voice. They came to recognize this goofy dog voice of mine and would get excited when they heard it. I’d carry on conversations between my dogs and myself in these voices, a sensible one for me and a goofy one for them, imagining how cool it would be if it were real, if they really were thinking what I was saying in this goofy dog voice. I used to think it would make life with dogs so much simpler. Ask them what they wanted, and they could tell me. I’d done this all my life up till a few days ago, when I no longer had to.

“I’m not eating this,” Hamish says, putting his nose up at the kibble I just scooped into his bowl.

Franny looks up from her already empty bowl. “I’ll eat it.”

I give her a stern look. “No you won’t. You already had yours.”

“But I’m still hungry.”

“No. You need to lose weight,” I say.

“But if I lose weight, I’ll be cold and light as an earth worm and the birds will carry me away to some far away tree branch and eat me.”

Hamish shoves his bowl away with his snout. “I’m not eating this. It has rat poop in it.”

“So that’s what that was.” Huckleberry licks the crumbs off his lips. “I’ve been wondering all week what that new flavor was.”

Hamish pokes at his food with his snout. “It’s been there since he opened the new bag.”

“What?” I ask.

“I taste it too,” Franny says, her tail wagging,” but I don’t mind.”

Hamish looks at her pointedly. “That’s because you’re a poop eater.”

She looks away sullenly, avoiding eye contact. “I am not.”

Hamish doesn’t even bother to argue with her. He just snorts.

I open the bin where I store the kibble and peer inside. “But this is the fancy food with the fancy price.”

Hamish comes over and sniffs at the open storage bin. “It’s not droppings in among the kibble, Raud. It’s inside the kibble, fresh from the kibble factory. If it were just droppings, I’d eat around those and leave them in my bowl.” He glances at Franny. “Or at least some of us would.”

“I am not a poop eater.”

I shake my head. “You mean the factory has rats?”

Hamish tilts his head to the side and contemplates. “Well, I guess they could order fifty pound bags of rat droppings and add it as an ingredient. You know more about factories than I do. Do they list it on the bag? Maybe it’s under a fancy name for rat poop. You did say this was the fancy food. I only know what I see on TV. But then you say the people on TV aren’t really who they claim to be, so who knows.”

I remember reading years ago that a certain number of rat droppings were allowed in a Snickers bar but always thought that was just an urban myth. I pick a piece of kibble from the bin and hold it up to my nose to give it a sniff.

Franny joins Hamish and me at the kibble bin. She’s drooling as she looks up at me with her big brown eyes. “Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t smell anything.” I toss the kibble back in the bin.

The dogs look at one another, as if saying, Duh, not with that nub of a nose.

Huckleberry wags his tail. “You should stick to throwing the ball, Raud. You’re much better at that. Leave the nose work to us.”

“What are you having for dinner, Raud?” Hamish leans his shoulder against my leg. “I’ll have some of that, that is, as long as there’s no fancy ingredients in it.”

I look at him. “What are you saying?”

“If you smelled what we smell in some of what you eat, you’d stop eating it,” Hamish says.

“Like what?” I ask.

Franny looks at him, eyes wide. “Don’t tell him. He’ll stop eating it and then we won’t get any either.”

“Raud,” Hamish pushes harder against my leg, “I’m really hungry. How about that bowl of people food? What are we having?”

Franny’s hackles go halfway up. “Hey, why does he get people food when Huckleberry and I get stuck with poop tainted kibble? That’s not fair.”

“I like people food,” Huckleberry says, wagging his tail some more.

I close the lid on the kibble bin. “Okay, I give up. We’ll start afresh and worry about Franny’s waistline tomorrow. What do you all want for dinner?”

* * *

We pull into the drive-thru at Bob’s Burgers and stop at the plastic menu sign to order. It’s lit with glowing pictures of giant burgers and fries sized for Great Danes. The dogs sniff at the tops of the windows I cracked open to stop their breath from steaming up the glass. The windows still steam up but at least some fresh air gets in the car.

“What is this place?” Huckleberry asks.

Franny is sniffing at her window so hard she looks like she’s hyperventilating and going to pass out.

I smile, enjoying going on a junk food bender more than I should. “This is where the Burger God lives.”

Hamish pulls his nose away from his window. “Is he related to the Mayo God?”

“First cousins.”

I lower my window and the menu speaker crackles incoherently at me. I assume this means they’re ready to take our order, so I order four cheeseburgers with no onions or pickles, and four orders of fries. Then I top it off with a large chocolate shake for myself. Why hold back, right?

“What about us? Don’t we get drinks too?” Hamish says over my shoulder from the backseat.

Franny fidgets in the passenger seat next to me. She always claims that seat, being the eldest. “Yeah, but none of that fizzy stuff that climbs up my nose.”

“Are milkshakes good, Raud?” Huckleberry asks over my other shoulder.

I give in and order three small vanilla shakes. “This is a one-off, you all, until we figure out something healthy for you to eat.”

“You mean something healthy that we like, right?” Hamish says.

“Yea, something you like,” I say, then notice the drool on both of my shoulders. I reach for the towel I use to wipe the steam off the windows and use it to clean my shoulders. “Geeze, you two, give me some space, would you?”

“There he goes again, worrying about his space,” Hamish says, backing off. “Whatever that is.”

I finish wiping off the drool, then pull the car up to the pickup window and get out my wallet.

A high school kid slides open the window and tells me how much I need to pay him. He looks about sixteen, and is overweight with acne.

Hamish looks at him, then over at Franny. “Looks just like you.”

“I don’t have spots.”

I pay the kid and he slides the window closed.

“How come he speaks gibberish and you don’t?” Huckleberry asks, his head back on my shoulder.

I’d been wondering if the dogs were going to understand all people or just me. “You got me. I don’t know how this works. Maybe he just hasn’t inhaled enough pet dander yet. But be especially nice to him. He’s in charge of your burger and fries. Be mean to him and he might drop a loogie on your patty.”

Hamish’s head pops over my other shoulder. “They do that?” he asks with alarm.

“Well…. it has been known to happen.”

Franny squirms some more, anticipation getting the better of her. “Toughen up, Snowflake. You’ve been eating rat poop all week, what’s a little nerd spit going to do to you?”

“Give me spots.”

The kid reappears at the window with a big paper bag and a tray of shakes.

When he slides open the window, Hamish shouts at him, “Hey, Nerd-boy, did you drop a loogie on my patty? Cause if you did, I’m coming through that window and wiz on your pant leg.”

The kid smiles, showing us his braces. “Cute dogs,” he says.

Huckleberry lets out a little whine. “Ooo, that’s got to hurt. He’s got a fence stuck in his teeth.”

The kid passes the bag and tray of shakes through the window to me. “Thanks,” I say.

“The dogs getting any?” he asks.

“More than they should.”

Franny tries to get in my lap to talk out my window. “He feeds us rat poop.” I push her back into her seat.

“You ever wonder what they’re saying?” the kid asks.

“Oh, I know what they’re saying, and you’re better off not knowing. It’ll only complicate your life.”

As we drive off, Huckleberry asks, “Was he the Burger God?”

“Nerd-boy’s the burger god?” Franny says. “I love him. His spots are beautiful.”

“The burger god wouldn’t have a fence stuck in his teeth,” Hamish says.

Thinking of all the different types of people I’ve seen working pickup windows over the years, I say, “The burger god comes in many shapes and sizes, so beware who you treat poorly or they might just spit on your patty.”

Huckleberry snorts. “Or worse, put pickles on it.”

* * *

The whole car smells like fast food as we pull into the garage. The dogs and I pour out of the car and head to the kitchen. I set out four plates and three bowls, unwrap the burgers and put them on the plates along with the fries, then pour their shakes into the bowls.

“Who is ready to eat?” I ask.

“Dog, does he ask a lot of stupid questions,” Hamish says.

I hold up Hamish’s plate with his burger and fries and give him a pointed look. “Who’s the burger god now, Hamish?”