My dog is a scientist.
You may not believe me when I say this, but I swear to you that it is true. Though he lacks a tiny lab coat and goggles (not for lack of desire on my part to outfit him with them, I assure you), he conducts experiments on me, mainly on my days off from work. These experiments are to measure the power of annoyance.
After a hard week at work, there is nothing I like more than rising late on a Friday morning, perhaps wandering around pantsless while eating an english muffin, drinking coffee, and reading a book. Some people might rise with the sun and go to a farmer’s market or take a jog or go out to breakfast or go shopping–I like to drink hot beverages pantsless. Don’t judge me.
The dog’s goal is to remind me that the universe does not cease to revolve around him on my days off. After being fed, it is of immediate importance that He Goes Out Right Now. This need is equally urgent whether I get up at 5am or 8am or 11am, and it is at odds with my desire to remain pantsless. It is at that precise moment that the tiny scientist emerges.
Napoleon’s Theory of Annoyance: Subject is annoyed by a certain number of Whines Per Minute or WpM, and that as WpM increases, annoyance will also increase until subject gives in to demands.
He will first announce the beginning of the experiment by flopping down in my vicinity with a loud sigh. Then he will initiate a low cycle of WpM, where WpM < 2. Approximately every fifteen minutes, WpM will double, and will continue at this rate until WpM>60 or ∞, depending on your perspective.
In MY persepective, WpM at this point=∞, because when I am trying to read or relax or enjoy coffee without spilling it onto my nethers, a constant stream of whisper-whines with nary a pause to take in another breath, to the point where I cannot concentrate or hear ANYTHING but “whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine” FEELS like infinity, and I am powerless to consider anything but two options: dog murder (also known as ‘Rexicide’) or give him whatever he wants RIGHT NOW which invariably leads to putting on pants and taking him outside, whereupon he extrudes a carefully measured picoliter of urine.
I am considering renting him out to prospective parents; if they can put up with his demands for a week or longer without wanting to pick him up and furiously shake him like a maraca, they are qualified to have a baby.
Olé!
