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 “How come you think humans evolved from monkeys?” asked Lilly, “Don’t you think dogs are much smarter than they are?” Lillie is our dog, and she often communicates with me. As far as I know, she does not talk–er, think, I receive her thoughts in my mind—with anybody else. “Well, girl, I know that you are pretty smart.” “Don’t deflect. How do you think chimpanzees compare to dogs? And do you really think humans were once animals?” Once ~read more~  After the third time Lillie dropped her ball at my feet, I finally looked up: “I’m sorry, girl, I am too upset to play.” “What’s the matter?” she asked (Lilly is our dog, but she sometimes talks to me. Nobody else ever hears her, but I have grown used to it). I told her that I was worried about union workers. In Wisconsin, and in a dozen other states, newly elected lawmakers are attempting to roll ~read more~ Our dog, Lillie, talks to me. Or rather, she thinks to me. I never see her lips move. As far as I can tell, nobody else can hear/feel/receive her. I’ve even stopped looking around, to see if others perceive anything odd. I just think back at her. For example, last week, when we dropped her off at my sister’s house (so Lilly could play with my sister’s dog, Xena, while we were at my grandmother’s funeral), the ~read more~ |
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