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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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.

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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!

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