Greg Winters had always been a man of boundless ambition and questionable common sense. His latest obsession began when he saw a video online claiming that a border collie in Japan could speak three words. Not to be outdone by some foreign canine prodigy, Greg decided his five-year-old bulldog, Winston, would become the world’s first conversational dog.
“Winston, my boy,” Greg announced one morning over breakfast, “we’re about to make history.”
Winston, who had been peacefully snoring next to his empty food bowl, opened one eye and released a particularly fragrant burst of gas in response.
“That’s the spirit!” Greg exclaimed, interpreting this as enthusiasm.
The training began that very afternoon. Greg cleared his schedule for the next three months (which mostly involved calling his mother to tell her he wouldn’t be coming to Sunday dinners) and converted his living room into what he called “The Canine Communication Academy.”
Day one started with vowel sounds. Greg sat cross-legged on the floor across from Winston, who was far more interested in a spot of peanut butter Greg had accidentally dropped on his pants.
“Winston, repeat after me: Aaaaaaaa,” Greg said, opening his mouth wide.
Winston tilted his head, jowls swinging, then lunged forward to lick the peanut butter stain.
“No, no. Focus, Winston! Aaaaaaaa!”
Winston sneezed directly into Greg’s open mouth.
By week two, Greg had developed a comprehensive curriculum. Mornings were for consonants, afternoons for simple words, and evenings for what Greg called “practical conversation scenarios.” He purchased flash cards, a dog-sized graduation cap, and even a tiny podium for Winston’s eventual TED Talk.
Greg’s neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, became increasingly concerned as she observed Greg through the window, holding up pictures of everyday objects and enunciating with exaggerated mouth movements to an indifferent bulldog. She particularly worried when Greg installed a karaoke machine and began vocal warm-ups at 5 AM.
“Your dog will never talk, Gregory,” Mrs. Henderson said bluntly one day while Greg was collecting his mail. “It’s anatomically impossible.”
“That’s what they said about the four-minute mile, Mrs. Henderson,” Greg replied with the confidence of a man who regularly ignored scientific facts. “And about sending a man to the moon. And about me finishing a marathon.”
“You never finished a marathon.”
“Exactly my point. Limits are meant to be broken!”
By month two, Greg was showing signs of strain. His hair stood permanently on end from running his hands through it in frustration. He’d developed a habit of speaking in the slow, over-enunciated manner he used with Winston, even when ordering coffee or talking to his increasingly concerned mother on the phone.
“HOW… ARE… YOU… TO-DAY… MOTH-ER?” he’d say, pausing expectantly after each syllable.
Winston, meanwhile, had mastered exactly one skill: perfectly timing his bathroom needs to coincide with Greg’s rare moments of optimism.
The turning point came during week nine. Greg had been working on the word “hello” for three straight days. Winston sat on his special learning cushion (a repurposed bean bag with “DOCTOR OF LINGUISTICS” embroidered on it), watching Greg with the patient tolerance of a creature who received bacon treats regardless of his academic performance.
“Hel-lo. HEL-LO. HELL-OOOOO!” Greg demonstrated for the forty-seventh time that day.
Winston yawned, revealing a tongue that rolled out like a pink carpet.
“Winston, please,” Greg pleaded, his voice cracking. “Just try. For me.”
The bulldog blinked slowly, then opened his mouth.
Greg leaned forward, eyes wide with anticipation.
Winston belched loudly, then flopped onto his side and began snoring.
Greg slumped against the wall, defeated. He had spent nearly three months trying to teach a bulldog to speak English. He had created vocabulary lists, sentence diagrams, and even a graduation ceremony itinerary. Meanwhile, his own life had descended into chaos. His refrigerator contained nothing but dog treats and energy drinks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to another human being for purposes other than explaining why his dog needed flash cards from the educational supply store.
That night, Greg fell asleep on the floor beside Winston, a stack of unused “Advanced Conversation Topics” cards scattered around them.
He awoke at dawn to something warm and wet on his face. Winston was standing over him, licking his cheek with methodical determination.
“Hey, buddy,” Greg mumbled, reaching up to scratch behind Winston’s ears.
The bulldog plopped down on Greg’s chest, nearly crushing his ribs, and rested his wrinkled face just inches from Greg’s.
“I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?” Greg sighed. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
Winston responded by snuffling loudly and settling his considerable weight more comfortably across Greg’s torso.
As they lay there, Greg realized something. For three months, he’d been so focused on making Winston speak his language that he hadn’t bothered to learn Winston’s. Every tail wag, every head tilt, every contented sigh – Winston had been communicating all along.
The next day, Greg dismantled the Canine Communication Academy. He returned the karaoke machine, donated the flash cards to a local school, and threw away his fifteen-page manuscript titled “How I Taught My Dog to Talk: A Memoir of Perseverance.”
Instead, Greg took Winston to the park. They played fetch. They napped under trees. They shared ice cream cones (with Greg magnanimously pretending not to notice when Winston drooled into his portion).
Six months later, Mrs. Henderson spotted Greg and Winston in their backyard. Greg was lounging in a lawn chair while Winston sunbathed beside him.
“Did your dog ever learn to talk?” she called over the fence, unable to contain her curiosity.
Greg smiled. “As a matter of fact, Mrs. Henderson, we have conversations all the time now.”
Right on cue, Winston raised his head and gave a soft “woof.”
“See? He just told me he’s hungry.”
Mrs. Henderson raised an eyebrow. “And how exactly do you know that?”
“Because I finally learned to listen,” Greg replied, standing up to go inside. “Come on, Winston. Dinner time.”
Winston lumbered to his feet and trotted after Greg, pausing only to give Mrs. Henderson what she could have sworn was a knowing wink.
As they disappeared into the house, Mrs. Henderson heard Greg laughing at something Winston had apparently “said.” She shook her head and turned to go inside her own home, but not before glancing back once more at Greg’s house.
Through the window, she could see man and dog moving around the kitchen in perfect, wordless harmony – Greg reaching for the dog food while Winston nudged his empty bowl into position, a silent conversation flowing between them more eloquent than any spoken dialogue.
Maybe, Mrs. Henderson thought with a smile, the bulldog had become a speech therapist after all.