To understand the next question I would ask, you have to understand Sandy's personality. She is scared to death of other dogs. I will never forget the time she -- all 70 pounds of her -- was intimidated by a 20-pound Yorkshire terrier. So, I would ask Sandy, "Why are you so scared of other dogs, even little dogs?"
Her response would probably be, "Ever since I was a puppy, my personality was very timid. I often got pushed around and soon grew to let other dogs have their way. I don't like to cause trouble."
I would try to convince Sandy to "Stand up for yourself. Don't let other dogs push you around. You need to gain respect and confidence."
One part of being able to communicate with Sandy would be the hassle at meal times. With the way she begs at the table already, I can't imagine how annoying she would be if she could talk to us. She'd say, "I don't find it fair that everyone else gets spaghetti while I get stuck with this hard, dried-out dog food. At least give me the wet dog food!"
While I'd love to know what's going on in Sandy's mind, it's nice to have someone mellow and quiet in the house that I can turn to when I'm sick of my sisters complaining. -- Bryanna Schwartz, Westview H.S.
I can talk to insects. In fact, I was about to talk to an ant...no, not the kind that squeezes your cheeks every Thanksgiving; I'm talking about those six-legged creepy crawlers with the antennae and itsy-bitsy fur. "So, uh, Mr. Ant, describe to me an average day in your six shoes."
"It's terrible. I spend 99 percent of the time marching. Marching where? Nowhere. All we do is march. Us freaking ants, we're always marching. No one ever asked me if I wanted to march, though. No one ever asked me if I'd prefer parading or even treading. My entire existence has turned into one giant game of follow the leader."
"Well, yes, uh, I'm very sorry about that. But, living in a hill, that must be nice, right?"
"Are you kidding me? I've got to deal with stupid kids sticking a hose down my hole. And then, if we try to run, they attack us with a giant magnifying glass! Now, where I want to live is on one of those farms, those ant farms. I'm not exactly sure what I'd be growing or even if I'd raise animals, but a quiet life in a glass case, that's definitely for me."
"Well, I'm sure life can't be all that bad...what about picnics? Ever invade one of those?"
"I've never been to a picnic. I've never seen a picnic in a photograph. I've never even heard of someone talk about a picture of a picnic they once saw. All a big lie. A giant hoax. Something the queen made up to keep us working hard. The most adventurous place I've ever been was inside of someone's pants. And, believe me, having ants in your pants is as bad for the ant as it is for the human."
"Well, it certainly sounds like you've got a pretty hard life."
"Hard? HARD?!?! For God sakes, ever heard of an anteater? There's an animal out there whose sole purpose is to eat me! Between Raid and the constant firecrackers in my hill, life sucks. Life, for me, is for the birds." -- Andres Perez, Valhalla H.S.
From the day we brought her home, Abby and I hadn't had a good relationship. Almost the instant she was out of her cage, she walked over and bit me. One day, Abby stared up at me, her nose wiggling wildly, her whiskers twitching. Her little bunny eyes seemed more intelligent than they normally did. Because she was looking rather philosophical, I decided to ask her about it, as pet owners and crazy people tend to do. "What made you hate me, you silly bunny? What did I ever do to you? We get you home from the pound and -- chomp -- no sooner do you get out of your cage, you are clamped onto my ear. Why?"
She snuffled around her hay box, then suddenly she looked up to me with her brown eyes and said, "It's because I like you."
Perhaps all those years of my mother baby-talking the stupid creature had paid off. Was I insane, or had the rabbit just talked to me? Deciding that it was probably the former, I proceeded, "You like me?"
"Well, yes," she said.
I was having a conversation with an eight-pound creature whose brain was no larger than a walnut. I sure wasn't crazy. This led me to wonder if she could have talked this whole time, so I asked her.
"Oh, no," she said. "Nothing like that. You never let me get a word in edge-wise -- all that 'ooooh, fuzzy little bunny' stuff."
"Hmmm...I never really thought of it that way," I said. "Well, I must ask, how do you like carrots?"
"Don't even get me started, buddy. If I had a dollar for every carrot I've eaten... Well, let's just say I wouldn't eat carrots anymore."
"Well, I guess I've always just pestered you. I really had no idea that you were a smart critter." As I said this, I recalled how I had thought she had no brain at all. "Huh, well now that I'm talking to a rabbit, I have nothing to say... Eh, what's up doc?"
"Is that the best you can do?" -- Grant Barba, La Jolla H.S.