In Praise of Barking

I love barking.

There, I’ve said it. And you know what? I’m not ashamed about it, either. The music of it echoing along my bony snout and my moist black nose tip is a rush like you wouldn’t believe. You might even say that I love barking so much that I’m addicted to it. I admit it. Can you?

When I hear the postman walking up the front steps everyday, I feel a kind of transcendental longing, a desire to be reunited with the source, that carries me away like a magic carpet made from the threads of a thousand barks.

Let me ask you this, if almighty Dog didn’t want me to bark, then why did he design me as the perfect barking machine? You don’t see cats barking, do you? Or goats? Nope. They make their own natural sounds that they were made to make. And you don’t see anybody telling a goat to stop bahhhing, or a chicken to stop clucking. But, boy, you start barking and everybody acts like the world is some kind of public library.

When I feel that first swell of air in my massively over sized chest (considering I am only as big as a loaf of bread) I think to myself, this must be how Pavarotti felt. I feel like a balloon that’s going to float up into the air. I feel so happy. And before I know it, the song is just soaring out of me. I am an artist. This is my art. You wouldn’t take away Picasso’s brush or Mozart’s piano would you?

So let’s get this straight. I don’t care about all your “Shhhhhhhhhhsssss(s)” and your “Cut it out (s)” or your “Quit it!(s).” I will not be silenced–unless you break out that water pistol, which is nothing more than the cheap tool of a petty tyrant, not that I hold it against you. I’ve already forgiven you even as you pull the trigger and squirt. I will still lick your face the first chance I get, or chase any tennis ball you throw. But I’m going to bark, too. Understand?

I am going to bark. Now…

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BmoHGoa0EZM&w=640&h=320]

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Spanky

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