Food, poop, sleep and food. A good run here and there. A scratch behind the ear, on the belly, on the ass - a pat on the head. These are the makings of many a happy dog. Alas, I am no average dog - I am my own dog.
Yessir, you wouldn't know it by looking, but I'm one complex pooch. Of course, I keep up the appearances of a moronic, food-crazed beast, but when you think I'm upstairs napping,. I'm actually waxing philosophical about a wide array of topics. Lately, a topic I can't seem to get around is the nature of humanity and it's attitude towards my "species" (not to mention what you do to your own species, but we'll save that for another time).
A human's general attitude towards a "dog" (as you call us - clearly a case of backwards spelling, if you ask me) is one of ownership. You believe that, by paying a breeder five, six, twelve hundred dollars, you have taken the necessary steps to have us do your bidding. Humans like to think that at the moment they hand over that check, cash, or money order, they've gained license to do what they like with the entire life of the dog in question. Some poor brothers and sisters of mine are doomed to the life-long torment of silly haircuts, degrading perfumes, and sweaters, for crying out loud! Others, more fortunate, are used as a working class. I can easily see the merits of rescue and service dogs, but their existence only helps to drive my point home: you expect us to be your servant before we can become your friend.
Sadly, in many cases, we dogs know no better. "Pure" breeds with less capacity for comprehension have been devoid of original thoughts for decades (a mutt is your best chance at any level of perspicacity). It is rare these days to exchange a social bum sniff with a k-9 of intelligence, even in this blessed bohemian town of San Francisco. Gone are the days that saw my kind living somewhat under their own will, roaming the countryside and returning only to the call of the dinner bell - and that only by conditioning. I propose a reversion to the thinking of yesteryear, when dogs were free to roam and usually chose their companions, not vice-versa.
Now, don't get me wrong - I love my "dad" (I'm not stupid enough to think that he begat me, but I still don't mind the term). When he picked me out of that Humane Society cage some 8 years ago, I was a sad and hapless pup. He tried to cage me once after that dreadful experience, but I destroyed the contraption and he apologized profusely for having put me there. He talks to me more than I think he probably should, but judging from how much my stepmom talks to my friend Eliot (yes, it's a cat, but let's keep that on the "D.L."), it's normal human behavior. It's like we're furry little counselors, giving our thoughts by way of curious looks that warrant a "you're so cute!" or a thorough petting. I guess it's a step in the right direction toward my personal goal of "friends first, faithful servant second."
Until this dream is realized, the k-9 world shall continue
to appreciate offers of Milkbones, walks, fetch games and calm
channels to swim in as penance. That's a hint, dad.
Updated January 26, 2002
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