Middle dog gets his chance to speak

Kevin is dealing with Zane’s school, so this is Buddyboy writing the column. And, no, I do not refer to him as “Master Kevin” because that would poorly describe our relationship. Kevin is my rescue human, a member of the Fisher-Paulson pack. There can be only one alpha, and that alpha is me. Oh, Bandit may argue that point but, really, I’m the only one in the bungalow who knows where all the carrots are buried in the outer, outer Excelsior.

Bandit says that I have middle-dog syndrome, the Marcia Brady of Pekingeses, the Lisa Simpson of the Fisher-Paulsons. Kevin was the “baby” of the Paulson brothers, so he doesn’t get me. It’s the middle dog who is both patient and adventurous, the one who learns how to negotiate.

Now, Krypto’s name may have appeared on a January 2017 column, but let me tell you now it was ghostwritten. The old dog is not very bright — in fact, barely knows how to wag his own tail, the only canine I have ever known to fail obedience school. Lately, he has taken to stealing the boys’ shoes and dropping them randomly in the backyard, so I am calling him Klepto instead.

Bandit is the baby of the family. He hasn’t figured out that we all started out as “the baby of the family.” But because he is disabled he gets all the attention. Bandit. Bandit. Bandit. He gets carried so much that humans think he’s a service dog. What they don’t realize is that the humans are servicing him.

For example, Kevin gets up at 5:15 every morning to carry Krypto and Bandit out on the lawn. But not me. I run out and tell them where to mark, make sure they kick up enough dirt, growl at the cat next door. Kevin then turns on the coffeemaker. When he goes to brush his teeth, their young one, Aidan, comes in. He is the baby human of the pack. Aidan has difficulties communicating with humans, but he talks to us dogs just fine. The humans don’t realize that because Aidan doesn’t sleep well, he lies awake until it’s time for Kevin to shave. And don’t ask. I have no idea why humans remove part of their fur in the morning.

Aidan yawned, rubbed his eyes, scratched my ears and asked, “Do you think the dogs think that we’re giants?”

Kevin scratched his head, removed a few whiskers off his upper lip and said, “I expect you’d have to ask Buddy that question.” I growled, but neither of them got that although humans do generally see better than us dogs, we hear four times as well, and smell about a thousand times better. And I know what a giant smells like.

“Buddy doesn’t talk.” Aidan tends to pop from one topic to another, so without missing a beat he said, “Daddy, there’s a lot of gray in your beard. You should have adopted me when you were much younger.”

“But you weren’t born when I was much younger. I was waiting for a boy as special as you.”

Aidan nodded, as if that made sense, “How old are you going to be when I get to your age?”

“I expect that by the time you turn 59, I will be a distant memory.”

Just as Kevin turned the shower on, Aidan said, “Daddy, I’m scared of death.”

Kevin put the towel down, bent his knee so he was level with Aidan, “Here’s the thing: We’re all going to die some day. You can’t live your life afraid of what’s inevitable. The important thing is this: to live a worthwhile life, to cherish each moment as if it’s the best moment, ’cause it’s the only moment you got.” Aidan nodded. That morning, before Kevin filled his coffee mug, he opened the refrigerator and got out a slice of last night’s meat, bent down and handed each of us a piece. I flicked my tail twice to let him know that he got it right. Life is short: You got to eat bacon when you can get it.

Were any of you readers aware that the San Francisco SPCA has a Disaster Relief fund and that they sponsored a huge airlift of animals who were stranded or abandoned in the recent hurricanes? Feel free to go to SFSPCA.org to support my brother canines and sister felines. Even better, go down and visit them at 101 Alabama St. You might just find a dog to rescue you.

“Life is short: You got to eat bacon when you can get it.” Buddyboy, the Marcia Brady of Pekingeses

Kevin Fisher-Paulson’s column appears Wednesdays in Datebook. Email: datebook@sfchronicle.com