An ode to watching football with my dog

As soon as I stepped through the doorway last Thursday evening, Memphis registered his first stat of the night; a big tackle for loss. His tail wagged every which way, not just because I was home from work, but because it was Thursday Night Football featuring our beloved Cleveland Browns against hated rival Pittsburgh Steelers. I picked myself up off the floor only to receive a flying chest bump from my four legged dude. My dog was giving me a dawg check.

One of the best parts about having a dog, aside from all the unconditional love, is they can be the best TV watching companions. They never ask to change the channel, they are just happy to be involved. As such, Memphis loves watching football because I love watching football. He gets to jump up and down on the couch because that’s what I’m doing. What’s better than that?

When Memphis and I watch football, certain rituals ensue. If I’m chowing on chips and salsa, he’ll chew on one of his nyla-bones. When the game is a little too close for comfort and I’m exuding nervous energy, Memphis will insist we play fetch or tug of war to burn off the anxiety. And when we’re casually watching the Red Zone package, he’ll just plop down next to me as we check our fantasy teams.

There is one area where he can afford to step up his game. His clock management is Andy Reid level bad. Anytime the game approaches the two minute warning he has to use the bathroom. My guy can’t be asking to go out as the game approaches its most climactic point, and yet he does like clockwork. It doesn’t matter if I try to time up his bathroom breaks before kickoff. Once the ref signals the final two minutes, Memphis gives me his own two minute warning.

He does have a great presence and awareness of how the game is going. The aforementioned fetch that we play during a game is his signal that things are too close for comfort. Memphis will take it upon himself to run routes throughout our living room. Jacoby Brissett and Amari Cooper wish they had our chemistry as we go through the living room route tree.

When the Browns get a score or make a big third down stop, he knows I’m excited and will hit me with another one of those chest bumps. We’re just a couple guys being dudes when the game is on.

More times than not a bet of mine loses because of a nasty bad beat. Memphis will curl up in my lap and remind me there are more things to life than covering the spread (this point needs constant reminding). The only spreads Memphis cares about is what food we’re having with the game. Doesn’t matter if it’s sandwiches or quesadillas, Memphis will hit me with the play action, run a slip screen, and nab himself some turkey or chicken right under my nose. Those big brown eyes can look off any defender.

We’re only three games into the NFL season but Memphis is already in mid-season form. He’s there for the early, mid-afternoon, and prime time games; tail wagging and chest bump ready. I’ll remind him it’s a long season, but in our third year watching games together he’s a proven veteran now. He knows the drill, always rooting for my teams and never fading my bets.

There is an old Bud Light commercial of the dog fetching beers from the fridge. Memphis hasn’t learned that trick yet, despite how hard I try to teach him. Doesn’t matter. He’s still man’s best fan.

— BR

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Brandon lives in Chicago, IL with his dog, Memphis, and fiancé, Jamie. They are Chicago’s Dawg Pound.