My dog Rocco stares at me a lot. It’s not because he thinks I look good. And it’s not because he wants me to take him on a romp through the woods to sniff out raccoons or other wild creatures (note: he is afraid of the squirrels in the yard, and they have perceived his cowardice, taunting him as they raid the birdfeeders.) And it’s certainly not because he has some interesting idea he is trying to convey telepathically. I know this is true because I have tried getting him to respond to animal friendly TV programs. Every Wednesday I put on Hudson and Rex reruns, but he never even looks at the screen, never heeds Rex’s heroic bark or fierce growl. Nope. Rocco just stares at me like I’m the idiot!

So, as you can see, Rocco is neither adventurous nor fierce nor particularly intelligent. His habit of staring at me for long periods of time has one purpose: he wants to annoy me to the point where I break down and give him a treat. The idea of a sumptuous handout permeates through his consciousness like a looped dream, during which he periodically licks his chops in anticipation.

Well, maybe I exaggerate. Rocco loves more in life than food. He loves to be petted and scratched, and more than anything he loves to sleep. He is passionate about sleeping and prefers it over dull activities like hiking in the woods or fetching some stupid stick. The sleeping process is an art form for Rocco. It begins with him trotting to, then jumping into his doggie bed. After a couple wags of the tail he plops down and curls into the fetal position. Soon he is dreaming, making grumbling, growling, and whimpering sounds as his tail and paws twitch. Finally comes the deep sleep where he spreads out flat on his back, gone in his magic carpet ride to his happy place.

In short, and don’t tell him I said this, Rocco is boring. I mean, he’s a good boy, does what I ask him to do for the most part, but he reminds me of my own boring life as a retiree and the oppressive routines to which I have become addicted. In effect, Rocco is an enabler.

He does nothing to try to change things and is quite content with the way things are.

He is a status quo kind of being, a constant reminder of my torpid existence as a prisoner of a daily schedule.

Maybe I should trade him for a horse, because a horse is pretty smart, smarter than a cow or an anteater, for example. A horse brings dynamics to a relationship, actively resistant to doing what you want it to do. There is also the element of danger, as an unhappy, disgruntled horse (which all of them are) is apt to try and throw you off their back by performing the little dance they do, which we call bucking. Or, from my past experience, there is a conspiracy among horses that when being ridden through the woods, they should attempt the decapitation of the human by taking off at a full run under low hanging branches, and if that fails, to lie down and roll around in a creek bed.

On second thought, maybe a cat would be better. They have personalities that are much more adventurous and curious than Rocco’s. Rather than staring at a person, they prefer to stare out the window, where they look for birds or mice and imagine pouncing on them, digging their claws and teeth into their little furry or feathered backs. There is a sense of ecstasy as they feel their victim go limp. Moreover, cats, like humans, like to have some old fashioned substance-induced fun, like rolling around in catnip until, overwhelmed by euphoria, the shed their clown suit and suddenly leap up, planting themselves flush on your face and causing you to spill your gin and tonic as you scream for mercy.

Or maybe I’ll trade Rocco for a talking bird, like a parrot or cockatiel or myna bird, one that knows a lot of words, including cuss words that’ll serve to add a little spice in life, like if I ever was to throw a party. But those birds cost a lot of money, and could be a spiritual liability if, for example, Father Dan comes to visit. Then there are pet rats, gerbils, guinea pigs, snakes (ugh) and lizards. And I have to admit, even Rocco is more exciting than a turtle.

So I guess I’ll keep him. He is, after all, a handsome, gentle, and loveable dog. And maybe someday, when he is, like, four years old and no longer a puppy, he will become the fierce rottweiler he was born to be!

Musician, writer, house painter Pete Howard lives in Dunkirk. Send comments to odyssmusic20@gmail.com