By Seamus Morrow
Hooman Interest Editor, Beaver County Business
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My hooman likes to say, “A man who is tired of Bridgewater is tired of life.”
He says it with a kind of weary pride, as if he were quoting Samuel Johnson and not just rationalizing why he still lives in a one-bedroom apartment above the river. I do not quibble. From my vantage point, Bridgewater is endlessly fascinating.
Every morning I take up my post by the big window and conduct a thorough review of the park below. People amble about, pushing strollers, tossing balls, and dragging smaller dogs behind them. I observe with professional detachment. Personally, I see no point in retrieving balls. If hoomans are silly enough to throw them away, they should be prepared to fetch them themselves.
The Ohio glides past with its barges, fishing boats, and jet skis, all of which I monitor closely. Occasionally I join the Canadian geese for a swim. This displeases and terrifies my hooman, who seems unaware that Newfoundlands have webbed feet for a reason. The geese and I get along splendidly, though I suspect they view me as an unusually large and hairy cousin.
Meals arrive promptly, thanks to the good offices of Balto Raw in East Lima, Ohio—thirty-five minutes away, which happens to be the perfect distance for a car ride. Balto offers a veritable smorgasbord of carnivorous delight: beef, duck, chicken, green tripe, bison, turkey, and pork. There are also tasty bones and treats—dried cow’s liver, beef lung, rabbit ears. Over time I have developed quite an adventurous palate, though I confess to two favorites: rabbit, which I regard as nature’s finest achievement, and something Balto calls Picky Puppy, which suits my discriminating tastes so perfectly that I suspect it was formulated with me in mind.
The trip itself is half the fun. Along the way we visit a car wash in Chippewa Township, which gives me the chance to bark ferociously at the attendant and immediately undo all my hooman’s hard work by smearing the windows with nose prints. I consider this my contribution to the local economy.
Transportation remains a highlight of my working day. I find the elevator an excellent place for reflection, though only when I ride alone. Shared rides are awkward, particularly with neighbors who insist on petting me without first seeking an appointment.
My dislikes are fewer, but serious. Fireworks, thunderstorms, and train whistles are an affront to civilization, designed by hoomans with no consideration for canine nerves. The worst time of year is the Beaver County Boom, when the Zambelli fireworks barge docks directly outside my window and proceeds to detonate civilization itself for half an hour. New Year’s Eve isn’t much fun either. During these assaults, I climb onto the bed and bury my head under the pillows. My hooman calls this “cowardice,” but it is really just crisis management. Meanwhile, I leave him well supplied with dog hair and drool, so he never forgets who runs the Hooman Interest desk.
I have often considered writing directly to Bridgewater’s mayor, Tim Rettinger, demanding stricter regulation of loud noises. But deadlines have a way of slipping, especially when one is under a bed or under a pillow. By evening I return to my post at the window. The park grows quiet, the boats turn into shadows, and my hooman sits at his desk, trying to sound important. He means well. But I know better. I am the true chronicler of Bridgewater, the one who understands that life here is not just bearable but endlessly entertaining—provided the rabbit ears keep coming.
As Mr. Twain might have put it, every great writer needs a faithful dog at his side. He had his Bixby. My hooman has me.
Seamus Morrow is Hooman Interest Editor for Beaver County Business. His opinions are his own, except when they are his hooman’s.
