Where's the Dignity? by Domino,, the toy poodle

I don't think my brother, Dash, is very smart, even though we poodles have this reputation. He doesn't possess any of that canine intuition dogs are naturally supposed to have, particularly regarding our own human family members.

For example, if our mother lay stabbed and unconscious on the floor in front of Dash, in a large pool of her own blood, he would still throw his beloved tennis ball at her, hoping she'd revive and toss it back to him, over the knife protruding from her chest.

I don't want to boast, but I can tell what mood mother is in before she even gets out of bed. All she has to do is look at me, and... I know. There's a rapport, and understanding; but for Dash, eye contact means nothing. People are just a vehicle for his ball to get from one place to another.

Mother is interchangeable with the mailman for Dash.  I'd even argue that my ingrate brother would find the mailman preferable since he undoubtedly has a better throwing arm. I ask myself: Can a brother of mine be this limited?  He has no emotional range and yet, people love him.

They adore him, in fact. They interpret his overbearing manner as charmingly confident, they inexplicably see his mono-vision as a sign of intelligence, and they sympathetically view his tennis ball as a replacement for the baby he will never father. That dog could no more want a baby to steal his spotlight than someone wants to share their winning lottery ticket.

Should the better behaved, dare I say, more intellectually evolved brother, always get short shrift? Just because I am cooperative, should I be overlooked because of the clownish antics of a manipulative poseur?

I hear them; they think he's a winsome, pint sized performer. Shrieks of laughter ensue each time he thinks of even more clever ways to play fetch. Place the ball precariously on their laps to watch it fall off by itself?  "How adorable," they say.  Drop the ball right in their hands to prod them into action?  "Ingenious!"  Make snorting sounds in consecutive octaves while gesturing for the ball with his snout?  This one kills them.

I get it. But I'm here to argue that substance should prevail over style. This is a plea on behalf of all of us who refuse to pander. Just look at Dash panting happily over there while having his admittedly lustrous hair tousled by a throng of admirers. Where's the dignity, I ask you?  Where?

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YOU Try to Eat After a Funeral by Domino the miniature poodle

There's some magical thinking going on in the minds of my human family when they leave me home alone to go out. They think I’m OK with it. However, I wish to make one thing perfectly clear: while all dogs are very happy when their human families finally return home each day, deep down we are pissed, really pissed, that you left us alone in the first place.  You may not want to accept this, but accompanying every one of your arrivals home, are the hours of deep despair we have suffered at your hands while you chose to be away.

I think I can speak for most dogs in this department. No, we are not sleeping calmly when you are gone, like you might prefer to think.  In fact, we are pacing the house in a state of high anxiety, barking indiscriminately at the neighbors and shredding our nylabones.  No, we are not suddenly at the window after a relaxing nap because we recognize your car motor and so rouse ourselves to greet you. In reality, we've been returning to that window every five minutes, waiting for a glimpse of you the whole damn time.  No, our meals do not remain uneaten because we're just not that hungry. Do we have to remind you that misery trumps kibble? You try to eat after a funeral.

And finally, in my particular case, no, your mother whom you leave me with occasionally, does not actually like me, or for that matter, dogs in general, as she has led you to believe. She only says that for brownie points. But when you're not around, she shows her true colors.  She often leaves me with her erstwhile friend, Susie, who hates dogs even more than your mother. Turns out, your mother is actually a cat person. Who knew? Not you.  How could you?  You left me with her in the first place.  The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, it appears.

Yes, dogs do those stupid dog tricks when their families come home, but not because we're so talented, agreeable or well trained.  Get our leash, you say?  Absolutely. This means we might not have to stay home alone in our private hell.   Sit down and Stay?  You bet; this one is a win-win.  Here it is WE who have your attention rather than the other way around.  It’s amusing to watch you keep checking to see if we're still in the same spot.  The most inane trick of all?  That would be the cloyingly folksy "Gimme five," where we tap our paw on your open palm in the air.  You always laugh at this one.  Laughing is good for us; it's our goal.  Why?  Everyone likes to hang with a joker.

So now you know what we dogs really want.  It's very simple.  There are special purses made to hold smaller breeds like me, which can be worn as a fetching accessory. There's also, a whole line of carrier bags that are airline approved.  For bigger dogs, you'll have to ditch your convertible dreams and make sure you have a four-seater large enough to accommodate the whole family.

You don't want to get me started on what it says about you if you even think about putting us in the plane's baggage section.  Cargo?  Isn't that a fashion choice that went out of style last season?

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