I think he was as glad as I was to have found a new friend.

the amazing history of man’s best friend

Before long, me and Ivan were best buddies.

We’re an unlikely pair, sure. Ivan’s calm and serene, a philosopher, an artist. I wish I could be more like that. No one’s ever accused me of being levelheaded.

Hotheaded, sure.

And I can’t talk pretty like Ivan can. I’m a street dog, after all. And proud of it.

Still, we clicked, in a way I never had with humans. “Man’s best friend”? No way. “Gorilla’s best friend”? You bet.

Seems to me the first time I ever heard that phrase—“man’s best friend”—was while I was watching TV with Ivan.

Back in the day, Ivan had this little television, and we watched a lot of stuff together. Old movies, Westerns, cartoons, you name it. Poor guy was stuck in a cage, didn’t have a lot else to do except throw me-balls at gaping humans.

Anyways. Me and Ivan, big fans of the tube. Cat food commercials. Pro bowling. Dancing with the Stars. What’s not to like?

Once we watched this special on the nature channel. It was called The Amazing History of Man’s Best Friend. Show was all about famous dogs. There were rescue dogs and therapy dogs and war dogs and fire dogs and movie dogs and this dogs and that dogs. And between you and me, most of ’em were just plain overachievers.

Then they got to this dog named Hach-something-or-other. Hatchet-toe, maybe? Seems his owner died (for the record, I object to the word “owner,” but we’ll set that aside for now), and Hach-something-or-other sat around for over nine years in the same spot at the same train station, day after day, waiting for him to return.

Thing is, the narrator guy was blabbing on and on about this dog, really over-the-top stuff: How loyal! How loving! Break out the Kleenex! Blah blah blah, wah wah wah! Man’s best friend!

They made a statue of this dog. I kid you not.

A statue of the dog who sat around nine years waiting for a dead guy.

in my opinion

That dog was a ninny.

A numskull.

A nincompoop.

i’m yours

Lemme tell you about being man’s best friend.

Being man’s best friend can mean a lot of things. Companionship. Belly rubs. Tennis balls.

But it can also mean a dark, endless highway and an open truck window.

It can mean the smell of the wet wind as hands grab the box you’re in with your brothers and sisters and you go sailing into the unkind night and still, still, crazy as it sounds, you’re thinking, But I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours.

no one

That’s what being man’s best friend can get you.

A black highway.

An empty box.