My dog likes it when I sing him the Psalms.
I'm not kidding.
It's not that I've never sung to Cody before; we have a little repetoire of ditties that I've sung to him ever since I was just his dogsitter and not his Official Person -- for instance there's the reggae-inspired Code-Mon Song, created shortly after I'd made his acquaintance, when he had long white dreadlocks; and there's the Yucky Medicine Song ("It's pink and it stinks!") that's an essential element of his nighttime medicating routine.
But I usually don't sing serious music for Cody. He sets a pretty high bar for entertainment: Francis Albert Sinatra, to be exact. The Codeman loves Sinatra. He lies next to the boombox when a Sinatra CD is on; one evening when 60 Minutes featured a story on newly discovered Frank Sinatra film footage, Cody sat right in front of the television, mesmerized, while The Chairman of the Board performed: Frankie!
But the other evening I was practicing singing the Psalter, in my amateur and unconfident manner, when I noticed that Cody was looking at me, ear askew, in a curious but approving way. So I kept it up. He kept listening. He put his chin on the armrest of the chair and lay there contentedly. Keep going. Keep going.
This is so great -- my dog as my voice coach and accountability buddy.