Stimpy chilling. Little Bit on alert.

Dogs know things.

Like my dog Stimpy. The first dog I had in my adulthood when we lived in Oak Ridge.

It found us one Sunday on the old city perimeter security trail where we were hiking.

The dog and the wife knew. It took me some time to accept. I needed a dog.

I needed a dog to help with depression.

One day, when the dog and I were hiking, something we did every day when the weather allowed, and after I had relented that dogs are good critters, the dog knew before I did.

It was a beautiful spring day; Stimpy had never shown any signs of aggression toward anyone, any dog, or even a cat.

As we walked, the sun was on our backs. I heard someone coming up behind us. Since the dog and I walked for leisure, I stepped to the side to let the person pass. Stimpy sat down.

The dog growled as the man topped the trail. Shadows obscuring his face. Stimpy did a low guttural warning.

The man was disheveled and well-worn from years of rough living: prison tats, two on his face, a skull and bones, and a teardrop.

He glared at us. A low, menacing voice, he told me I should put that damn dog on a leash. He kept moving along, glancing over his shoulder.

Later, in the local paper, a mug shot appeared. Perhaps the same man, at least the tats would suggest. Arrested for assault at a local bar.

Dogs, like wives, know things.

Calista knows when she needs love and a head and butt scratch.

Then, of course, most husbands know that as well.

I always thought God had dyslexia and a wry sense of humor when he named these furry love machines.