The Shamus Chronicles: Acts of Intelligence

by Betty Poole

When good friend Veronica and I get together, which is perhaps once every couple of weeks, we almost invariably compare notes on the latest accomplishments of our canine companions--Veronica's Penny and my Shamus.

Veronica had recently injured her right forefinger by inadvertently inserting it in the doorjamb at Thrifty's and having it badly squashed. As a result, she was sitting in her easy chair one day last week, feeling below par.

Penny, for once, did not seem to understand why Veronica was not joining in the game of "Find Rabbit". Rabbit is an old nylon stocking knotted at each end to facilitate manipulation and tossing across the living-room. Penny was becoming increasingly demanding until Veronica, after repeated assertions, very firmly said "Stop, Penny. Don't be such a nuisance". Penny responded, according to Veronica, by saying "All right--you can't play with my toys!" Penny then collected Rabbit and her smurf ball, raked up the scatter rug between the kitchen and the dining area, placed her toys on the floor and covered them with the rug. Then she sat down on the rug and glared at Veronica.

"Now what do you make of that?" Veronica asked me.

I had to agree that Penny is fast acquiring some very human characteristics.

To counter this little tale I had to dig up one about Shamus. I must admit here that Penny does a lot more talking (according to Veronica) than Shamus does. But we must remember that Penny is a girl, whereas Shamus is a boy--the strong silent type. He does his communicating with the expressions in his big brown eyes.

Well, the other evening I forgot to leave a bit of my dinner for Shamus and had to substitute the much anticipated daily treat with a dog biscuit which I placed on my plate hoping that I would be forgiven. A few minutes later I was sitting in my armchair watching TV when I became aware that I was not alone. To my left, was Shamus, sitting on his haunches in the begging position beside the chair, staring fixedly at me. I asked him all the routine questions. "Do you want out?", "Do you want to go to bed?", "Where is your ball?", "Do you need to pee?". No reaction at all.

Finally, I asked him the question which only occurs at 8 p.m.: "Do you want a biscuit?" Shamus's eyes lit up, he leapt to his feet with a grin and bounced toward the kitchen. Sure enough--his biscuit lay in the middle of the plate just the way I had left it. Shamus tried to pick it up, but it just slid around in front of his nose.

The problem was rectified and Shamus's eyes said "Thank-you, but don't let this happen again!"