It’s Memorial Day, and (CBT cognitive distortion alert) I “should” be using the long weekend to do some work. There are blog posts I could be writing, but they’d require research and more thinking than I feel like doing right now. So instead I’m going to put the CBT-relevant pieces on hold and just relate an anecdote of no particular interest, possibly, to anyone but my family and me.

(Then again, isn’t that the nature of many blogs? I’m drawn to the food ones featuring detailed accounts of the blogger’s daily meals, complete with mouthwatering pictures. They always inspire me to cook oatmeal—which somehow I keep forgetting I don’t particulary like—because it looks so appealing served up in earthy crockery with colorful garnishes of fruits and nuts.)

But I digress.

My anecdote is about my dog Freddie. I’ve talked before about how challenging it is to watch TV with him. He barks at everything that moves on the screen. So when he’s resting quietly, we relish the rare peaceful moment and try our best not to disturb him.

Such was the scenario last night. We were watching the Richard Linklater film Before Sunset, the second in what is now a trilogy (the 3^rd, Before Midnight, will be opening here next week) following over the course of a few decades the same characters, Celine and Jesse, played by Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke. To say there isn’t much action is an understatement. There’s a lot of walking, talking, eating, closeups of the couple exchanging flirtatious glances—and not much else. No shouting, explosions, fighting, or sudden movements. In other words, there’s nothing to excite Freddie. Perfect!

So Freddie slept for most of the 80-minute film, and we enjoyed the illusion of having a mellow dog just chillin’ at our feet. That is, until a scene towards the end of the movie where Julie Delpy is taking Ethan Hawke to her apartment and spots her cat in the road.

“There’s my kitty!” she says. “I love my kitty!”

At that, Freddie shot up, ears pricked. We knew immediately what was about to happen. He dashed up to the TV and started barking just as the cat appeared on screen.

I have no idea how the word “kitty” penetrated his sleeping brain or why it caused him to react. We don’t have a cat. I don’t recall pointing out any cats to him on our walks through the neighborhood. So how could he have known “kitty” was something to get worked up about?

To test if his reaction was a fluke, we waited for Freddie to lie down again, turned off the TV, and said, “Where’s the kitty?” And again he bolted up and ran up to the screen, barking madly, aroused by the mere threat of a feline sighting.

So I have no explanation. This is one situation where science fails me. But it sure makes for a real life “shaggy dog” story on a lazy holiday weekend.