The Devil is in the Tomatoes
Last night while I lay, I mean, sat on the couch watching The Golf Channel, I mean, The History Channel, my dog started growling out on the back patio. At first, I thought she must be growling because she forgot that “lay” is past tense for “lie,” which means to recline (though not necessarily to relax), but it is also the correct form for the present tense of depositing an object, to lay something down. This is a very frustrating grammatical reality, but must be absolutely infuriating for a dog, as evidenced by the fact that she had graduated from growling to full blown barking. So I went outside to explain “lie, lay, lain” and “lay, laid, laid” to our dog, Sookie. I thought a nine-quadrant matrix would work best as a visual.
But Sookie was not barking at the insanity of correct grammar. You see, like most pet owners, I project my thoughts and behaviors onto my dog. I am the one who growls and barks at grammar, not my dog.
Sookie is a Jindo/Sheppard mix (i.e. Korean/German...Hyundai/BMW, or maybe Kia/Audi)), very territorial, loyal, and protective of her family. So, she sends a few barks over the bow of anyone who steps onto the property or thinks about stepping onto the property. I’m quite certain she would go tooth-to-bone on the mailman if given the chance, but if she sees him while out on her walk, she ignores him. It’s all about turf.
Last night she was staring into a group of potted plants, barking and growling and generally attempting to look bigger and badder than whatever it was that had her attention.
Imagining some small animal cowering among the pots I went over for a closer look. Sookie did not stand down or even acknowledge me when I reached her side, as if whatever it was might escape if she let down her guard. I looked but could not see anything. When I moved a vine from the tomato plant to get a better look, Sookie darted in toward one of the green tomatoes and then quickly withdrew with a half growl half bark, a warning that she was serious about something. I reached in to touch one of the tomatoes and Sookie followed my hand in and then pulled back again with dog-like-cat-like reflexes.
The dog was barking at the tomatoes.
I told my wife, Jen, when she came outside to see what was happening, that the dog was barking at the tomatoes. I said it twice because, well, they were words I had never uttered previously in my life and such phrases deserve repeating.
The tomato plant, complete with several small and mid-sized green tomatoes had just arrived on the back patio that day and although it had been resting in its new home for several hours, the shiny green skins were now reflecting the porch light, making them stand out among the surrounding plants.
But Jen wanted to be sure and went back into the house for a flashlight. There are a number of stray cats in the neighborhood and our backyard offers several discreet locations for depositing a litter. Jen wanted to make sure there wasn’t a baby kitten or possum or some such chew toy hiding in the shadows. While she was gone, I moved the tomato cage several times, causing the tomatoes to move and Sookie to do her dart-in-for-the-kill-but-then-change-her-mind routine.
The flashlight revealed nothing and after several minutes of my talking baby-talk at the tomatoes, Sookie either lost interest or decided once and for all that I am a complete and utter numb-skull and wandered off.
We have a weird dog, I guess. But I can’t help thinking that maybe she knows something that we don’t know and I have had a second and third look at those tomatoes in the light of day. Sure, they’re just tomatoes, right? Probably. Maybe. Worst case scenario, they are actually alien pods waiting for a signal from the mother ship before they take over our bodies. Nah.
I did look up the recipe for fried green tomatoes, though. You know, strike first, strike hard, no mercy. That's how I roll.