This week I spent much of my time learning how to build and improve a script for ChatGPT to write fiction. I’m impressed by the results. Judging by the comments of two of my harshest critics, they were also impressed. Four stories, eight favorable comments from people who knew it wouldn’t hurt my feelings in the least if their comments were derogatory. In the interest of garnering more comments I have published it elsewhere in my blog, The Time Machine.

And that brings me to today’s dilemma, Venn’s treatise. I wanted to demonstrate the scope of ChatGPT to my Wife but the result turned out too good not to share. ChatGPT performed an excellent job of capturing the personalities of our three dogs. My apologies for sticking you with my version of a cat video but here you are:

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On the Curious and Entirely Unreasonable Obsession of Australian Shepherds With Tennis Balls

By Venn

I have lived with Australian Shepherds for quite some time now, and while I generally regard them as intelligent, capable creatures, there is one aspect of their behavior that remains deeply troubling.

Tennis balls.

Not the existence of tennis balls.

The obsession with them.

I understand useful objects. Food bowls have obvious value. Sofas provide comfort. Shade trees are self-explanatory. Humans are useful because they possess opposable thumbs and control the treat supply.

Tennis balls, however, appear to inspire a form of temporary insanity.

Take Oliver.

Ordinarily, Oliver is a sensible dog. Well, relatively sensible. He can open gates, solve simple problems, and understands that dinner arrives more quickly if one does not bark at the refrigerator.

Present him with a tennis ball and his brain immediately vacates the premises.

The ball becomes his sun, moon, and guiding star.

The human throws it.

Oliver runs after it.

He brings it back.

The human throws it again.

Oliver runs after it again.

This cycle repeats until either the human becomes exhausted or Oliver begins producing enough drool to irrigate a small agricultural operation.

At no point does he appear to ask the obvious question:

“Why am I doing this?”

I have asked.

His answer is always some variation of:

“Because the ball moved.”

This explanation satisfies him completely.

I find that alarming.

Ronin is even worse.

Now, Ronin is a retired competitor with enough titles to require additional wall space. He has demonstrated extraordinary intelligence throughout his life. He can interpret subtle body language, perform complex tasks, and communicate with humans using little more than eye contact.

Yet throw a tennis ball and suddenly we are back to primitive instincts.

Ball goes.

Ronin goes.

Ball returns.

Repeat until sunset.

It is difficult to take a philosopher seriously when he is sprinting after fluorescent rubber.

The humans encourage this behavior.

Indeed, they seem delighted by it.

Entire industries apparently exist to manufacture tennis balls. Some squeak. Some bounce unpredictably. Some float. Some glow in the dark.

I once watched a human purchase a package containing twelve identical tennis balls.

Twelve.

As though one were insufficient.

As though the previous eleven might somehow wear out before the apocalypse.

Naturally, Oliver regarded this event as the greatest day in recorded history.

Now, before anyone accuses me of lacking athleticism, let me explain my own position regarding ball retrieval.

I am willing to fetch.

Under specific circumstances.

Those circumstances generally involve treats.

For example:

Human throws ball.

I retrieve ball.

Human produces treat.

An agreement has been reached.

Both parties benefit.

This is civilization.

Without the treat component, however, the arrangement becomes difficult to justify.

Consider the economics.

The human already possesses the ball.

The human voluntarily throws the ball away.

The human then expects me to recover the ball and return it.

The human promptly throws it away again.

At some point we must acknowledge that the human appears to be creating the problem.

I see no reason to participate unless compensation is involved.

Oliver claims the activity itself is rewarding.

This is exactly the sort of statement one expects from a dog who would herd a lawn mower if given the opportunity.

I suspect Australian Shepherds possess a specialized section of the brain devoted entirely to moving objects. Balls move. Therefore balls must be chased.

This theory explains many things.

It may also explain why they occasionally attempt to herd children, bicycles, chickens, leaves, and once, rather memorably, a wheelbarrow.

To them, movement is an invitation.

To me, movement is information.

These are different philosophies.

Despite my criticism, I admit there is something admirable about their enthusiasm. Australian Shepherds commit completely. Whether pursuing Rally titles, guarding the property from suspicious delivery drivers, or chasing a tennis ball for the three hundredth time, they invest themselves without reservation.

Personally, I reserve that level of commitment for bacon.

Still, watching Oliver race across a field after a tennis ball does reveal something important. He isn’t really chasing the ball. He’s sharing an activity with someone he loves. The ball merely provides an excuse.

I suppose that is the secret.

The humans think the game is about the ball.

The Aussies think the game is about the chase.

In reality, it is about companionship.

Of course, if companionship could be exchanged for treats, I would still prefer the treats.

I may not understand Australian Shepherds.

But unlike them, I understand value.

 

 

 

 

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Today’s song from Songer… Tennis Balls and Bacon Dreams

© 2026, Byron Seastrunk. All rights reserved.