My dog looks at me.
He's not just looking—his expression indicates he's trying to communicate something important.
Finn is a brown and white terrier mix. He's low-maintenance and handsome. The black fur rimming his eyes gives the illusion he's wearing eyeliner. He has the most human eyes of any dog I've ever owned. They make him appear contemplative. Shortly after seven p.m., when I beckon him to my lap and scratch his neck, the staring begins. He didn't use to do this with such intensity. It's been six years since we rescued him, and this is a recent behavior. I'll be sitting there watching Paranormal Caught on Camera, with my pet studying my face in silence even after I look away from him. It's almost like he becomes a different dog; like he won't answer to his nickname anymore. In these moments he goes by Phineas, his legal name on the adoption papers. This Phineas knows all. And Phineas the All-Knowing has something to say.
He wants to say it. His stare is so intense it's like a yearning ache. He would speak human words if only his mouth and tongue could form them. I have no doubt. But he doesn't speak, and despite his human-like eyes I can't read his expression. I can only guess at his psychic message.
The first guess I had after the new behavior began, was that he was trained as a disease-detecting dog as a puppy. There are German Shepherds and Golden Retrievers who can sniff out diabetes and cancer. But I don't think that applies to my Phineas. He previously belonged to an owner in Kentucky who named him fucking "Pokemon" and didn't bother teaching him anything.
So no, he's not detecting an illness in my cells. That's not what he needs to tell me. Phineas the All-Knowing wears an expression of supreme importance. The knowledge he needs to drop involves something much bigger than me. It's meant for all of humanity.
This morning I figured it out. I now understand his message of crucial importance.
"Stop watching Paranormal Caught on Camera because the videos are fake."
Tonight at seven o'clock I'll look him straight in the eye and say, "I can't make that promise, Finnie. Now let me skritch your belly."