There’s a Talking Dog at Work

Grant texted me this morning: There is a talking dog at my work.

Bet you’d like to visit Sheetz in Lewisburg to see the talking dog, huh? This hearkens back to several years ago when my father-in-law Leon was part of a nearby Church congregation that we had once been in. I asked him how things were going in the West Bridgewater Ward, and he said, “Well, I just got a new ministering assignment. The missionaries baptized this fellow from Brockton, and I’m his assigned minister. Only problem is I’m pretty sure he’s a talking dog.”

“A talking dog?” I said.

“Don’t you know what a talking dog is?”

“If it’s not a dog that talks, then no,” I said.

“So this guy is driving along a farm road in the country one day, and as he passes a farm house, he sees a sign that says, ‘Talking dog for sale, $25.’ He pulls over and goes to the farmer and says, ‘Sign out front says you got a talking dog for sale?’ ‘That’s right,’ the farmer says. ‘He’s out back in the barn if you want to talk to him.’ The fellow goes back to the barn and finds an ordinary mutt. He says to the mutt, ‘Sign out front says you’re a talking dog.’ ‘That’s right,’ says the dog. ‘Wow,’ the man says, ‘you really talk. How did you learn?’ The dog clears his throat. ‘I was born in Russia and recruited at an early age by the KGB on account of my high intelligence. I learned seven different languages, but at one point, I flipped sides and became a double agent. Eventually, I defected to the United States. I’m in witness protection now.’ The man is dumbfounded. He heads back to the farm house to see the farmer. ‘You really have a talking dog there.’ ‘Yes, sir,’ says the farmer. ‘And you only want $25 for him?’ ‘That’s right.’ ‘How is that possible?’ says the man. ‘Here’s the thing about that dog. Not one thing he says is true.'”

I laughed, of course. The fellow at Church Leon was assigned to minister to liked to send out emails claiming that he was a black belt in at least four different martial arts disciplines and that he was the all-time sack leader in professional football, among other things. He also went by an obscure Bible name that wasn’t his real name. Leon was always good to him, listened to his stories, picked him up for Church, and stayed his minister until the day the man died.

Back in that era, I used to take the three older kids to the YMCA to work out. Grant was a big lifter, and the girls and I usually did the same lifts he was doing. Gyms are a fabulous place to watch people. We live near Bridgewater State University, and we used to call the five pm hour Tinder Hour at the Y—young, toned people in tight outfits competing for all the machines and free weights, talking to each other, hair done up (yes, men too), and often wearing perfume or cologne. Seriously. The boys were Brad and Chad; the girls were Ashley and Tiffany. One of our lifts, we spotted a group of middle schoolers at a squat rack—Brads and Chads in training. They put on 225 pounds, which looked way too heavy for their skinny legs. One guy moved toward the bar; the other guys cheered for him, smacked his shoulders, yelled, “Let’s go!” Brad Jr. got under the weight, looked to the ceiling, took a deep breath, then slowly lifted the weight off the rack. He stepped back gingerly, settled into his squat position, and took another deep breath. “You got this!” one of his buddies yelled. Slowly, Brad Jr. barely flexed his knees, sank his hips maybe—MAYBE—a quarter of the way down, growled ferociously as he lifted the weight maybe three or four inches, reached the top and racked it . . . all to enormous applause from his buddies.

Grant turned to me and said, “Holy shit. If I do squats like that, I could move a thousand.”

“Omg,” Lucia said. “That’s the Quarter Squat Club.”

Another of the guys moved into position. Chad Jr. followed a similar breathing and setup routine; Brad Jr. and crew yelled “Let’s go!” several times. Finally, Chad Jr. lifted the weight off the rack, took two steps back, stood still for a moment, then stepped forward and racked the weight. “Fuck yeah!” one of his buddies yelled. “You crushed that!”

Lucia stood with her mouth wide open. “None of you saw him actually do a squat, right? He just unracked the weight, then racked it, and they’re all celebrating. You saw that, right?”

“Yep,” said Lindsay.

Grant was laughing almost to the point of tears. Another squat rack opened up, and I said, “Anyone wanna grab that and do some unrack-and-racks with me?”

In that same Y, I have spotted Grant while he did squat sets at 515 pounds. The milling of the weight room went quiet as we put plate after plate on each side, and when Grant unracked the weights, I saw the Quarter Squat Club put all their weights down at a bench press, watched one guy smack the other and say, “Check that out. Holy. Shit.” And when Grant did three reps, I heard one of them exclaim, “No. Fucking. Way.”

For their sizes and body types, the girls are similarly strong (Lindsay’s squat max is approaching three hundred). So yes, we’re gym snobs, and we are judging. And all that context helps explain the rest of the messages I got from Grant this morning.

There is a talking dog at my work
Dude tries to tell me he squats 800
😂😂
He then tells me it’s on the connected supported bar at planet fitness
So I know he’s doubly full of shit
That’s not even a real squat 😂
It’s just funny as hell 😂😂