Road Trips with Family and Must Dash Come too? by Domino, the mini poodle

I'm not being competitive when I say that everyone likes me better than my older brother, Dash, a thoroughly annoying toy poodle.

In that never ending turf war between brains and beauty, I concede to his reign in the good looks department, although my coat is every bit as shiny as his.  But I would argue, shouldn't a winsome nature, mine, ultimately prevail when choosing a companion for our family's upcoming car trip?

I don't know why he just can't be left behind when my family hits the road later this month. There's a whole business in custodial canine care, last I heard.  Or, if that's not possible, our grandmother knows an entire community of Latinas who call him "munecita" or little doll, if you can stand it.

They would be thrilled for the pleasure of his pea brained company. He has fooled everyone into believing that he's good natured because his face has the expression of someone constantly smiling. In fact, and it's not sour grapes to mention this, that upturned sway of his mouth is merely a genetic abnormality.  I'm not a dentist, but I would swear that his grin is caused by his ugly overbite. It exposes his top teeth and leads to all of this confusion. Smiling, indeed!

That pint sized apple polisher; people don't know that behind their backs, he mocks them. In their presence, he lies on his back for tummy rubs, he nuzzles fetchingly in their laps, he hangs his tongue out in drooling faux worship.

But when he's alone, who is the first to sneak into their purses and tear them apart looking for a sucking candy?  Who's the one who thinks nothing of dragging their clothes on to the dirty floor to make himself a more comfortable bed, because the one granny had made for his highness, is too hard on his back?  He's not smiling during these activities, I can assure you.

And when mother reprimands both of us for these unseemly behaviors, who hides behind me and shudders convulsively, with his eyes wide as saucers, looking like a veritable trauma victim?  Who makes me take the flak while he masters the appearance of one wrongly accused?  Let the answer speak for itself.

None the less, and to my dismay, we are both going on this trip.  I know this because as we watched mother pack her bag, Dash pulled one of his coy moves and jumped into the open suitcase with his favorite chew toy in that freakish snout of his.

Mother lifted him up, that nine pounds of trouble, with a gleeful expression. To reassure him, she showed him that she packed the traveling sweater she knitted for him last year. Basking in the high up embrace of her arms, Dash glowed down at me triumphantly, his oversized tongue falling out of his mouth sideways.

I received a comforting pat on the head from mother. "Good, Domino," she said with a conspiratorial expression, acknowledging that we had to humor Dash. I could just puke.

However, I did notice that the sweater she knitted for me, was neatly folded next to her pajamas. She also packed my special fleece, queen sized blanket, a most cumbersome accessory to fit in her suitcase.  I didn't see Dash's favorite plaid wool blanket anywhere. I think I'll point this out to Dash once we're on the road.

Please read my other blog: http://srxq.blogspot.com/http://srxq.blogspot.com/

Dash is so Annoying by Domino, the mini poodle

My little brother Dash is so annoying. Technically, he's older, only by one week, but because he's a toy poodle and I'm a miniature, people always think that I'm the big brother. This fiction gives Dash the unfair advantage of being seen and treated as the baby in the family. And supporting this assumption is the glaring difference in our levels of maturity, even though we are both six.

Everyone loves Dash at first glance because he is, I've heard say, small and cute.  You see dogs like him around, stuffed in people's purses like a baby doll, wearing coats and bows and an air of entitilement. People can't believe that Dash's nickname around our house is "9 pounds of trouble."

Our grandmother always says that Dash has only two states of being: happy and frustrated.  And what makes this astounding lack of emotional range all the more irritating, is that the only thing that makes him happy, is, well, not yours truly, his brother, or the superior companionship I offer him.

No, I have to accept, that for Dash, there is only one for whom he has true loyalty or genuine passion. There is only one love he longs for, only one friend he would go to the ends of the earth to find. And that, dear reader, is his torn and much abused tennis ball.  Our mother threw it in a closet years ago,when she was just a little girl, never thinking it would reappear as my competition.

I agree with mother's disdain for tennis. We dogs can bring that fuzzy yellow ball back and forth from one side of the net to the other, without the need of paraphernalia like a racket or even, for that matter, effort.  In our world, we just call this to and fro, Fetch.  We don't need arenas and tournaments. Talk about gilding the lily.

I'm hoping that when his ball eventually falls apart, mother will let Dash founder, rather than replacing it. Anybody can see that he needs to toughen up.  It would be good for him.  Maybe he'd even notice me, not that I'm complaining.

But really, should his attachment be stronger to that ball than to his own brother?  Now he's just a one-note-Johnny. Perhaps Dash might broaden his horizons and learn from mother herself.  I think she was possessed of uncommonly good sense when, rather than embracing the inanimate charm of a tennis ball, she turned to horses instead.  Now that was a love match!

Please read my other blog: http://srxq.blogspot.com/http://srxq.blogspot.com/