I had a dog when I was a kid that was scary smart. His name was Jason when we got him, but I preferred to call him Bob. Bob Dog to be exact.

I refer to him as scary smart because we quickly learned we couldn’t say certain words around him. A LOT of words—likely 1,000+.

We got him when I was in the 7th grade and right away he seemed more like a brother than a dog. Within a day or two, he picked up on the standard words/phrases like “Walk”, “No”, and “Come here, Boy!”

We then noticed that he started picking up on when we would discuss leaving the house (which cued his sulking) and when he was going to the vet. We started spelling some of the basic things like “Go for a walk,” that would set him off.

This is when scary smart started.

He continued to understand more things we were saying. He would react sadly when we talked about me going off to college. He would react happily when I would tell mom I was going to the store, as that meant dog treats and a possible ride in the car if it wasn’t too hot.

In short, he started reacting accordingly to our conversations. If we discussed going on vacation, he became sad. If we disagreed about something (even in normal, calm tones) he would seek to intervene between us by wagging at each of us and trying to ensure all was well.

Once we realized he could understand what we were saying, we started spelling out more words we didn’t want him to hear, like “V-E-T V-I-S-I-T. But being the super-smart guy that he was, he quickly learned what we were spelling. If we spelled out B-A-T-H he would run and hide under the bed.

It came to the point that if he’d done something wrong or you needed him to do something, you could calmly (with no voice-inflection of any kind) tell him and he would respond appropriately. It was like talking to a human; you knew he understood what you were saying.

Friends were always blown away because he’d growl at strangers if he didn’t like what they were saying. “How does he know what I’m saying?” most would ask. “Trust me, he does,” we’d respond. It got the point that mom would get mad at me if I said something in front of him that she didn’t think he would like.

And it wasn’t based on intonation; if someone got animated or sounded angry in telling a story, he wouldn't react as long as he knew it wasn't aimed at us.

We began to think of him as not our dog, but another member of our family, and a highly beloved one at that. I found myself talking to him about my day.

He lived to be 16. This was him at about 13 after his body had started to age quite a bit. He eventually died of cancer of the nasal passages after mom moved to Florida.

We loved each other like brothers. He passed in 1989, and I miss him every day.

I think he knows this.