When my dogs speak, I listen. I also pull off an amazing feat of canine ventriloquism.
I initiate conversations with my dogs and, in grand style, respond as I believe they would if they could move their mouths in cgi-enhanced fashion. What are you looking at? What are you pointing at?
You do it too. You know you do.
My real question is: what do your dogs sound like?
Mine have the same voice, really -- a high-pitched fast chatter, not unlike The Chipmunks, waffling between sarcasm and dimwittedness, depending on the moment. I'm nutty, but I'm not going to spend the time it would take to master the art of pup-speak and discern between the two.
And I'm certainly not going to bother perfecting a raspy Scottish brogue, although wouldn't that be adorable to have a Scottish Terrier and a West Highland Terrier bantering in the backyard like Sean Connery visiting Shrek in the swamp.
Just think what kind of a road show we'd have if they'd wear kilts and play the bagpipes?! Maybe I could start speaking Gaelic to them, or learning some sayings or slang from the old country and putting it to good use. Say, when they won't stop their incessant barking (or in Eisie's case, when he's biting giant chunks of wood out of our fence).
Haud yer wheesht!
It means "be quiet."
Gonnae no' dae that!
It means "don't do that."
Yer aff yer heid
It means "You're off your head - a little bit daft."
So yeah, I talk for my dogs. They're hardly great conversationalists. And they mostly whine about wanting more food or desperately needing to trot outside and kill a small rodent or wishing I would share my popcorn.
They're not the brightest. Of course, they're only as smart as the woman who's putting the words in their dog-breathified mouthes.
And she's talking for her dogs. Who's a bit daft?