The Observer is a big fan of the director Wes Anderson, so there was around zero-point-zero chance of our missing his new flick “Isle of Dogs” the weekend it opened.

It’s a stop-motion kinda thing, something like herky-jerky ol’ King Kong in the movie of the same name, though in this case, all rendered so lovingly and carefully that you could convince yourself that the things on screen are some kind of marionettes gone wireless, the Blue Fairy having granted their wish to make them real boys, girls, dogs, owls and dastardly politicians. It’s all set in Japan, a society that’s already so weird that it’s like one of Wes Anderson’s movies to begin with, so we knew it was gonna be good. Which it was, of course. Gloriously, simply wonderful. A “run, don’t walk” film, which The Observer rarely says about any flick in this era of $13 movie tickets. There’s just so much more you and your honey could do with $26 plus two $7 Royal Crown Colas and a box of Raisinettes that’ll set you back more than the cost of a gatdamn bacon double cheeseburger.

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But The Cheapskate digresses.

Not to spoil it too awful much, but “Isle of Dogs” is the story of a boy and his dog — all about heroism and love and how dogs and 12-year-old boys have so much more in common than a Mom and Dad or sibling is going to have in common with that same kid. It got The Observer thinking of the dogs we knew and loved as a boy: Silver One and Benjy, Silver Two and Muddy. We’ve been sadly dogless for most of our adulthood, too consumed with raising a kid and bringing home the bacon to be able to commit much quality time to a four-legged friend. We have loved a few cats in that time, but have been, of course, unloved by them. We’ve never been roommates with a cat yet that we didn’t believe would respond to news of our tragic death with a silent, assholish eyeroll that says: “Oh, bother. Who shall operate the can opener now?”

Not dogs, though. Dogs pine. Dogs believe that every time you leave the house, their Shining Light has evaporated from the sky and cloaked them in darkness. Yeah, they chew up stuff and get projectile diarrhea while you’re at work, and dig up the flower beds of the cranky old folks next door. But damn if it all ain’t worth it. The Observer hasn’t been owned by a dog in 25 years, but we can tell you without question: You will never be loved as completely, as shamelessly, as selflessly, as you are by a canine.

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Now that Junior is about to head off to college, having seen his hard work in high school rewarded with that sweet Donaghey Scholars Program cash at UA Little Rock (thanks, UALR! Sorry about all the bad stuff we’ve said over the years about your architecture!) Yours Truly is thinking of joining the bedogged again. A beagle, maybe, or a bluetick. Maybe a long-faced bloodhound to while away the winter nights on the rug by our feet and bay fit to rattle the plates in the cabinets at every knock on the door. Some clever mutt to worry us through our summer colds and go bounding off after tennis balls. Junior will be just across town. But the hole in his Old Man’s heart is sure to be large without the comfort of that boy’s clicking keys in the next room. Can a dog fill that space?

We’ll have to think more on it. A dog is a big responsibility, what with the walking and baths, the trips to the vet and dog park, the leashes and squeaky toys and comfy beds to buy, the fat bags of doggie treats to haul in and the tennis balls to locate to replace those that have grown too slick with slobber or rolled into the bushes where even the good boys can’t retrieve them. Does The Observer still have what it takes, gray as we are? And after that, another question: How do we break it to the cats?

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