It is my duty as resident News Hound to share with you a shocking tale of miscommunication and dampening, as related to Miss Morgane and me by our youthful Upstate New York colleague, Miss Sophie Von Puppington. Miss Sophie, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever graciously shares her quarters with a pair of small-sized humans, the smaller of whom has yet to fully master either English or Retrieverese. It would seem that this language rift recently manifested in an incident wherein our Miss Sophie, performing her requisite floor sentry duties in the kitchen – protecting the tiles so that they should not be sullied by falling scraps of delicious food – was subjected to a icy deluge from above!
As Miss Sophie spluttered and attempted to shake the dampness from her sumptuous pelt, she heard her Mommy Lady ask the small human why he had upturned a drinking glass upon the loyal family pet. His answer – "Gog, mama! Watergog!" It would seem that the young lad misinterpreted Miss Sophie's breed's proud tradition of water dog-dom as a need for said pup to be watered.
Miss Sophie has been generous enough to allow for said incident to stand as a teaching moment in the annals of inter-species communication, and for this display of patience, she has my unfailing respect. I can only posit that had this happened on my watch, there would have been a considerable lot more harrumping and knockery over of things.
There was one time (and one time only - I promise, because I don't want you to be scared that this is an all the time thing) that I decided to try science to see what it would be like to be not a nice little dog, but instead a mean one. Oh, I tell you I put on the growliest face I possibly could and squinched up my eyes and turned to Daddy to see if he screamed and ran away. Rather instead he started laughing so hard that he almost fell off the couch where we were curled up together watching The Law & The Order.
I am not good at being bad, and that, I think, is probably pretty good. At least I think.
While I have heard that the subject of firearms is one that brings great consternation to many people of the human persuasion, the SnackShotz is the only such device that is certain to deliver a bullet-load of yum with delicious accuracy.
That is to say that the SnackShotz is a little gun that shoots dog treats, and I am willing to wager that if a mommy or a daddy got one for their very well-behaved and loyal pet hound, said hound would quite likely express a great deal of gratitude via the medium of face-licks and happy tail thumps.
I am, of course, just speculating. And perhaps drooling just a little tiny bit.
I come to you today a troubled hound - somewhat dogged, if you will. Or even if you will not, I am still most concerned about the current journalistic bent in favor of canines sized “cute”, as evidenced by a recent article in the Grey Colored Paper about the prevalence of small, dressable dogs as fashion accessories.
Paige is what is known as a sleeve dog, an emblem of status since antiquity. Once toted by fashionable women inside the folds of their gowns, diminutive pets have been the favorites of nobles from Marie Antoinette to Elizabeth II. The pseudo-royals of Hollywood also favor them, actresses and gossip-column fixtures like Tori Spelling and Mickey Rourke.
Now, thanks in part to their red carpet visibility, compact breeds are more popular than ever. “We're seeing a nationwide trend toward smaller dogs,” said Niki Marshall Friedman, a spokeswoman for the American Kennel Club. For example, registration of the Brussels griffon has gone up 231 percent in the last 10 years; Norwich terrier registration has risen 91 percent.
Flaunted as fashion statements, pint-sized canines are, to some minds, the fur-bearing equivalent of a pair of Louboutin pumps or other accessory.
Harrumph, I say! I, Mordred T. Dog am many things - elegant, stately, majestic, imposing, damp, but “diminutive” is never a term that could be ascribed to my generously proportioned frame, and thus “cute” is out of the question. Knitters of adorable dogwear leave noble beasts of my dimensions out in the proverbial cold - no darling bee costumes or lamb-soft, fetching sweaters for us, just our own luxurious pelts between us and the elements. And I challenge you to find a gown sleeve that could contain my stately bulk. I have resigned myself to a lifetime status as a non-totable dog, but must our very own Dog Show USA hop on the chow wagon as well? I note that the presence of a “Cutest Dog” category, but whither one for “Awesomest” or “Most Splendid” or “My Goodness, How Stately!”? Again - harrumph.
In protest, I will now consume several pieces of unattended ham.
Gentle Readers,
Hi Nice Friends!
