Almost Human

Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog

BY: Laura F. Chesler

"On the Internet, nobody knows you're a dog."
~Peter Steiner

"To the parents of PHOEBE CHESLER!" the headline blared. "We want YOUR daughter for our Young Miss Preteen Pageant!!" The slick glossy mailer went on to tell us how we could prepare Phoebe for a glamorous, successful life as a model/actress/pitchwoman simply by taking advantage of this fantastic opportunity! All we would have to do, we were informed, was send in a $150 entry fee (apparently the old adage "you've got to spend money to make money" can be applied to those not yet in puberty), procure a formal "party" dress for the pageant, and have some professional headshots taken. For a nominal fee, the company hosting the pageant would be delighted to provide this service for us.

You might think that visions of my child becoming the next Brooke Shields danced tantalizingly in my head. Was I tempted, even for a minute? You bet I was. The image of someone looking in disbelief at a picture of my Border Collie wearing a taffeta petticoat made me dissolve into laughter. You see... Phoebe was a dog. A beautiful dog, yes, but a dog nonetheless. And the thought of her in a party dress still makes me smile.

We adopted Phoebe when she was just three months old from an animal shelter in Auburn, California. I took one look at the black and white puppy yapping her head off, determined not to be overlooked amidst the chaos of the shelter, and fell completely in love. She was the first dog my husband and I had together, and was as smart as they come. In retrospect, perhaps she was a little too smart, but her Mensa-level intelligence was perfectly offset by the innate sweetness of some Springer Spaniel blood. We forgave her for doing things no dog should really know how to do, like opening the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage, then leaping up and hitting the garage door opener button that allowed her to escape, on her way to freedom.

My husband and I had a good laugh over this first letter, and briefly wondered how a dog got on a mailing list obviously intended for children. We figured it was a one-time deal, and had fun sharing it with a few friends. Then, we forgot about it -- until the deluge began.

"HEY!" the next mailing trumpeted. "We're looking for Hollywood's NEXT CHILD STAR! We think that child could be PHOEBE CHESLER! You owe it to HER to sign up NOW for our series of acting/modeling workshops!" All this company needed to secure my child's wildly successful future was a check for $500. They assured me it was just too good to pass up.

"To the parents of PHOEBE CHESLER! If something happened to you, do you have adequate life insurance to provide for YOUR daughter?" Somehow, I think the insurance company sending the letter would look askance at our application. Imagine the look on the adjuster's face who reads this:

Child's Full Name: Phoebe Alexandra "Feeber-Deeber-Dog" Chesler

• Age: 8
• Height: 2 feet on all fours, approximately 4 feet when on her hind legs.
• Weight: 50 lbs.
• Nationality: Border Collie/Springer Spaniel.
• Hair: Black and white
• Allergies: Flea spray and corn meal

Over the next few years, we received many letters asking us to consider Phoebe for modeling schools, pageants (I wonder what they would have done had I sent in the application with "herding" listed under the "talent" section?) and acting workshops. I decided to start saving them when I noticed the nature of each solicitation coincided with Phoebe's age. We had fun opening the latest ones and seeing just where Phoebe was supposed to be in her "human" life at that moment.

As she grew older, the "Preteen" offers gradually gave way to "Teen" opportunities, Army recruitment and then, lo and behold, college solicitations. How fast they grow -- our "baby" was about to start college! It was around this time that the credit card applications began arriving, thick and fast. According to whatever database she was in, she was now in college, and urgently needed to start building her credit history as quickly as possible.

Up until this point, the whole thing was a great source of amusement for my husband and me, but the credit card solicitations were upsetting. I hadn't realized just how much the big card companies preyed on college students. The "offers" were amazing, and not in a good way: huge annual fees, exorbitant interest rates, and credit limits that shouldn't be offered to most adults, let alone a student. I worked myself up into a fit over it one day until my husband gently reminded me that our "daughter" could not and would never be a casualty of America's overspending. She was in fact, at that moment, enjoying a rawhide chewie. Still, I felt for all the parents and students who must have been constantly barraged with these offers.

Over the years, I have never stopped wondering why it was Phoebe who mysteriously made the leap into the human system, while none of our other dogs ever did. I'd like to think it was some sort of cosmic destiny, as she was the smartest dog I've ever known, but I seriously doubt intelligence is the criteria for most mailing lists. One person suggested it was because we had given her a "human" name. Hmm. Our other two dogs were named Chloe and Madeleine, so, no, I don't think that was it. Yet another friend jokingly suggested that perhaps our veterinarian sold his client list to marketers. It got to the point where an accountant friend dryly remarked that if we could only issue Phoebe a social security number, we could claim her as a deduction. My husband brightened considerably at that idea, until I reminded him it was illegal.

Those of us who love dogs feel that at times that they are almost human, to the point of attributing human characteristics to much of their behavior. Still, we know they are dogs, and as such are usually exempt from the annoyance we call junk mail by virtue of their species.

Phoebe lived to the ripe old age of fifteen, and after she died, the offers slowly stopped arriving. How did they know? There was no hospital death certificate, no obituary. How did they know to remove her from The List? We may never know, but I'm wondering if maybe my veterinarian is chuckling even now, enjoying his secret prank. One of these days, I'll have to ask. For Phoebe's sake... and for mine.

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