Lets discuss this topic.
A dog is an animal. Now, when I was young, my sister used to talk to her stuffed animals and pretend like they had feelings. When I would get totally fed up with her, I would hit her favorite animal (Beary Bear) and tell her that the bear wasn’t upset because the bear didn’t have feelings and wasn’t real. Of course, she’d chase me around the house until she cornered me, and then hurl hair brushes and sneakers at me, so it went both ways.
Yes, we had parents, why do you ask?
Any how, I do believe that real animals have feelings, but still, it is my scientific opinion that a dog is indeed just a dog. For example, I love Duke, but he’s not sleeping in my bed, and if he’s not welcome at the party, I’m still going to go. Because he’s A DOG.
|And, honestly, not a very smart one.|
Now, you may not know this, but I’m a big talker. I did get Duke his own Christmas stocking, and I will spread out a blanket and have a movie night with him. So please understand that I love my dog. Love love love him. He keeps me company when Handsome is out saving the world, he entertains us to no end (especially when we tie toys to his feet. Oh, that one never gets old) and we take him with us pretty much everywhere he’s welcome.
Sometimes, though, I like to step back and just examine the situation. Come with me on this analysis with me. It’ll be fun.
- I bought this animal. Well, not me in particular, but people in general do pay for the pleasure of ownership, or so I hear.
- I buy special food for this animal, only to be greeted with a stanky smell when he sits down beside me.
- I buy toys for this animal to play with, even though he ruins them quite quickly.
- I pay for the pleasure of domesticating this animal through veterinarian visits and training classes.
- I make special trips to take this animal to the lake, because I think he likes it. And then he comes home and gets my furniture all wet and sandy.
- When this animal … you know… dukies in the yard, I scoop it. I. Scoop. The poo.
Me, the ‘higher ranking mammal’ have paid for the pleasure of putting food in this ‘lower mammal’s’ mouth and then scooping the remains out of the yard. The question that plagues me is, to what end?
|He L-O-V-E-S to lay on his back.|
I can't even describe to you how ridiculously ridiculous he is when he lays like this.
Guard dog: He sleeps through people puling into our gravel driveway right in front of our house. Oh yeah, would-be-burglars. Fear the Dog! He might offend you with his snoring.
Company: He’s pretty good company, except when he walks over, sits on my foot (a common occurrence) and farts. Right there. And he sleeps a lot. And he makes a mess. Okay, so maybe he’s not good company.
Protection: He’s oblivious to snakes and turtles and most anything cold-blooded, so he can’t protect me from nature. Seriously, I pointed his nose 10 inches from the Black Snake, and he didn’t see it. And he loves… EVERYONE. As in, everyone he’s ever met, and everyone he ever will meet, and even the people that he never will meet. He loves you. And you and you and you.
Its putting it mildly to say that he’s not a contributing member of the household, aside from comic relief.
|His tongue: OOC (out of control)|
Look at it this way. What if you came over to my house, whined until I fed you, stomped in your muddy feet on my carpet, shed an alarming amount of hair everywhere, broke things, and finally topped it off by going dukie in my yard? What if I did that at your house? It wouldn’t fly, right? People aren’t allowed to act this way (strange brothers aside, that is) And what if you paid me to come over and do all of that. Certifiably crazy, right? Yet people do it every day. I did it. I begged and pleaded for the pleasure of mopping dog drool off of my kitchen floor, and wiping it off of the chairs, and the couch, and my jeans…
No, he doesn't have tongue implants. Thats all natural baby. Pant what yo' momma gave you, Duke!
Its crazy love, it is, that drives a dog owner.
Crazy for Dukie,