"I think your dog is judging me," I said to my brother. We were having lunch at his house and the dog was giving me the side eye. "You think he thinks I took too many potato chips? I looked at the dog. "Did I take too many potato chips, Elvis?"
The dog squinted at me.
"I think he wants your potato chips," my brother said.
I looked back at the dog. He definitely had a judgmental look about him, which is quite a feat for a golden retriever -- a breed that never looks judgmental but almost always looks thrilled to be with you, wherever you are, at any time. But Elvis didn't look thrilled. He looked judgy. Disapproving. And just a little bit accusatory.
"Am I sitting in his seat?" I wondered.
"What?" said my brother. "No. he's a dog. He doesn't have a seat."
"Maybe he thinks I smell bad," I wondered.
"This is a dog that rolls in dead things," he said. "I don't think he thinks you smell bad."
"Then it's my shirt, right?" I said. "Does he think it makes me look fat?"
"NO! It doesn't. He doesn't," he said.