The above title is dog-talk for "Dog Talk." Okay. That's a lie. Wow! A weatherman just coming right out and admitting telling a fib! That's really amazing. Anyway, I'm just guessing about the meaning of Woof...bow-wow...grrrr. I've always wondered, when we look at a baby and say, "Goo...goo...gaa...gaa...wittle baby-waby...gibbywibbywoowoo?" if the child is thinking "What a moron. Just what drivel is this giant goof-ball trying to express? Please, move along and leave me to my formula and soft-as-a-lamb blanky. Oh, just a mo, would you mind, terribly, changing my rather soiled diaper?" Similarly, I suspect that when we look at a dog and bark or growl or whine, the canine is quite unimpressed. "Oh, good one! You're pretending to be a dog. I get it. Clever! Yep, I'm totally taken in by this amazing imitation. The fact that you're standing on your hind-legs, wearing clothes, is completely lost on my little pea brain. Come on. Give me a break."

Well, according to a story we had on FirstNews, Monday morning, scientists are working on computer software that analyzes dog barks--helping us recognize their moods. (The dog's moods, not the scientists.) By identifying key audio features of each bark, the men in white coats say they will be able to determine when the pup is happy or angry or in need of a walk. Setting aside the fact that there just may be more pressing issues for these smarty-pants guys and gals to tackle, I don't think most of us dog-owners need anymore help figuring out what the dog is thinking.

There are some other problems. If we get to where we understand the dog perfectly, it will ruin such classic jokes as "What did the dog say when it sat on sandpaper? Ruff!" Also, that episode of The Andy Griffith Show where Opie and his pal use a walkie-talkie to make Goober think he's found a talking dog, will become completely unbelievable if talking to dogs is an everyday thing. Then, there are certain questions we ask our dogs that we, as humans, really don't want answers to: "What are you eating?" and "Why are you dragging yourself across our carpet?" and "Get off my leg! What are you thinking?"

For example, if a dog has affixed himself to the seat of your pants, that's a pretty clear sign that he's not too pleased with you. We used to have a chihuahua-dachshund mix named Jingles. Jingles understood us perfectly. As he got older, he really would become agitated when we'd leave him alone...even for just an hour. He didn't need to see us get the jackets out of the closet to get angry. He just sensed it or, maybe, actually understood the words "go" and "away" and "car." In fact, Jingles seemed to have the dog version of telepathy or tele-pawthy. Once my wife, Jessica, was standing in the kitchen just thinking about getting the kids in the car and going to the store. Jingles got up from his pillow, strutted over to Jessica and deposited a little gift on her barefoot. It was a...well, uh...a pile of his discontent. Now, you don't need a computer program to know Jingles was perturbed.

Our current furry room-mate...coincidentally, the same thing my oldest brother's college buddies called him...Casey, is very soft-spoken. He doesn't bark hardly at all. He communicates with his eyes. There are times when his eyebrows get to dancing like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. (I know I should use a more recent dance-team reference. Something from ABC's Dancing With The Stars, for example. However, I've never watched the show. I'm very allergic to sequins. Even on the TV screen, they make me break out in a rash shaped like Liberace and, in extreme cases, his piano.) For example, Casey heads up to bed when I do...long before the rest of the family, most of whom are, apparently, vampires. On a weekend night, when I may stay up a little later...after having fallen asleep on the couch for most of the evening...Casey will lift his heavy head and give me a look that clearly says "Hey. Bed. Now." When we do go up on a weeknight, Casey will occasionally sneak onto the bed. When Jessica comes in and shoos him off, she says his look at her makes it clear that he thinks the disruption is totally unfair. His feeling is: He got there first.

When Casey gets in trouble or just thinks he is or has done something he knows he did but we don't, his eyes become little slits. If Clint Eastwood covered his face in Elmer's Glue and, then, rubbed it on the floor of a busy barbershop it would look like Casey. A hairy Dirty Harry. In addition to the eye-full cower, Casey's body language also makes it plain that he feels guilty. He does all he can to make his tall, gangly 90-pound presence seem smaller. He can only get so small. Maybe doggy-yoga would increase his flexibility. Instead of the Lotus Position they go for the (Canis) Lupus position. Clearly, we do not need a technological way to tell what our dog is thinking. We just look at his face...or read his diary when he's asleep.

After hearing the story Monday morning, I went home and asked Casey what he thought. Frankly, he was not supportive of the idea. "We dogs need to maintain a certain level of mystery, which would be lost if you could just hook us up to some sort of polygraph. I'm also concerned that the Velcro used to attach the thing to us would be very painful to pull off. I mean, really, look at all this fur. Ouch!" he said. "Now, I will grant you that, when it comes to being enigmatic, cats are the champs but even dogs still like to have some things be private and a little bit, what's the word? Inscrutable. Also, if you know what we're really thinking, it will make our weekly poker games totally unfair. So, Joel, I'd have to say I'm against this intrusion of Big Brother into our canine world."

I think that's what he was telling me. Or, he just really had to go out.