In this morning's Washington Post (and Bee) you'll find a column by Gene Weingarten, writing humorously about dogs in general and Murphy in particular. Here's how it begins...
I recently spent two weeks in a hospital. As far as my dog understood, I had died. After a few days of checking around to make sure I was not, for example, hiding in the laundry hamper, Murphy accepted the tragedy of my passing and was stoically preparing to go on without me. By that I mean that through some timeless, mystical entwinement of grief, survival, social cognition and the sense of commonality of purpose that have united man and dog since the first Pleistocene hominid befriended and domesticated the first gray wolf -- after just four days, Murphy moved up and stole my spot in the bed. Head right on the pillow.
My point here is that -- and I say this before a potentially hostile audience -- we must always remember that dogs are, in the end, only dogs. To paraphrase the British writer Frank Skinner, never expect too much from an animal that is surprised by its own farts.
I mean no criticism by any of this. I think we understand that one of the most endearing traits all dogs share is that they are absolute knuckleheads. In fact, if you examine the top of a dog's head -- check it out right now, if you happen to have a dog nearby -- you will see that they all have this lump there, right in the middle, toward the back. Feel it? My daughter, who is in veterinary school, informs me this is the occipital crest, but my medical theory is ... that's the knuckle!
It's delightful. Read the rest here.