The Jerry Falwell Special Edition of the Teletubbies.

Not Safe For Work.

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I was in the kitchen shucking corn on the cob, and Shelly, the miniature dachshund was standing looking up at me hopefully. When Shelly looks up, she is so short that she tends to pick up one paw. This, combined with her perpetually worried expression, gives her a kind of winsomeness that it takes awhile to understand is an accident of nature unrelated to her actual emotional state. Sort of like the fixed smile of a bottle-nosed dolphin.

I could suddenly imagine a conversation with Shelly as I shucked corn.

“Can I have some?” she would say. She’s little, about twelve pounds, so it helps to imagine a voice that goes with that.

“You wouldn’t like it.”

“I like it,” she says hopefully.

“You don’t even know what it is,” I say.

“What is it?”

“Corn,” I say.

“I like it,” she says.

I ignore her. You’re supposed to ignore begging dogs.

“Can I have some?” she says.

“You don’t even know that you’d like it. It’s a vegetable. Raw.”

She watches me without a glimmer of comprehension.

“Can I have some?” she says again.

“You don’t want it. You don’t even know what it is,” I say.

“Corn?” she says.

“You don’t know what corn is.”

“I like it.”

“No you don’t.”

Pause.

“Can I have some?”

I think it’s just as well they don’t talk.