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?

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