The dog would not shut up.

Begging for food. Whining to be walked. Usual dog stuff. But somehow, it was worse now that she was using words.

They’d run the talk show circuit, of course. The whole family shuffling into camera view. Awkward smiles.

It didn’t last long. There was a movie deal that failed completely to materialize. And that was that.

The dog was a Beagle named Tina—little Brett had named her that at three years old. No one had the heart to explain that it wasn’t really a dog name. So it stuck. And now she was Tina the Talking Dog.

“Can I have some food?” Tina said.

“No,” said Randall, Brett’s father.

“You’re finished eating, though,” Tina said. “And there are chicken scraps left on your plate.”

“There aren’t,” said Joan, Brett’s mother.

“There are. I can smell them.”

“We don’t feed you from the table,” Randall said.

“You do, actually. At least, Joan threw me a bit of cheese last week, when you weren’t home. You people send mixed signals. Not sure how I’m supposed to sort out what all the different rules are.”

Randall gave Joan a look.

“Go to the porch, Tina,” Brett said.

“Don’t think I will,” Tina said, and rolled onto her back.

According to Tina, all dogs could speak. They’ve kept it a secret, to avoid coming across as too intelligent. They’ve seen how well that’s worked out for cats. Everyone knows dogs get more treats, and also they have no desire to end up as the next lolcats.

When Tina revealed she could talk, every other dog on the planet knew instantly. It turns out all dogs are connected telepathically—like an internet for dogs. A dognet, so to speak.

“Wait,” Joan said when Tina first told them this. “If dogs have been capable of such a high level of connectivity for so long, why aren’t they the planet’s dominant species? You’d think it would be a huge evolutionary advantage, being able to communicate instantly like that.”

“It’s mostly just barking,” Tina said.

Now that Tina had spilled the beans about dogs possessing speech, all the other dogs hated her. They still refused to let on they could talk. “Trying to keep up the ‘man’s dumb best friend’ image,” Tina said.

They did, however, attempt to murder Tina whenever she was taken for a walk. Dogs dragging their owners across the street, lunging for Tina’s jugular.

So her family had to keep her inside—always. Listening to her talk. Constantly.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if she was a halfway decent conversationalist. But even though she now communicated with language, the content hadn’t changed much. She still said basically the same things she’d said when barking.

“If you won’t feed me, at least come and give me a belly rub. Or a quick scratch behind my ear. It’s super itchy.” She demonstrated by scratching rapidly with her hind leg. “Come on. Why are you ignoring me? I’m developing a complex, here. Feed me. Pet me. Let me into the yard. Why are you ignoring me? Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on.”

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(Image courtesy federico stevanin/freedigitalphotos.net)