I have two dogs, but allow me to be more specific: I’m a dog owner, not a “pet parent.” They’re my animals. Not my “fur babies.”
If they were my human children, I’d be expecting them to find my eyeglasses for me when they’re actually on the top of my head, ask for money every time I open my wallet and show me how to do utterly obvious things on my iPhone while rolling their eyes in disgust.
Spoiler alert, but I don’t bring my dog to the opera, either. I recently saw a dog at the L.A. Opera and I don’t mean a trained service animal, either. Sadly, it was only in passing, so I didn’t get a chance to inquire if this Pomeranian appreciated the soprano or thought she might have been off key during the final aria. If I’d brought my dog, he might have started howling at that point, possibly leading to a lucrative contract. Need to ponder that one.
I particularly appreciate those pet parents who bring their fur babies to the grocery store, and then put them in the top basket of the cart as they wheel around shopping. Yeah, that’s sanitary.
If you work for a grocery store, tell me this: Do you ever confront those folks? Do you ever suggest that maybe the pooch could stay home for an hour? What kind of rules are you dealing with?
I suppose maybe the dogs are just there to look for the Bowser Beer. Seriously, my friends, you can’t make this stuff up. You can actually buy non-alcoholic beer. For your pooch. You can get a six-pack for a mere $26.99. But it would be oh-so-hard to choose between the “brown beefy ale” and the “pork pug porter.”
I know I’m going to get hate mail from those of you who need for health reasons to bring Fluffy and Spike to the mall, so bring it on. Email me at mfisher@scng.com and tell me why your dog needs to be with you in Albertsons.
If you have a convertible, you’ve probably already bought them some “doggles,” right? To protect their tender eyes while riding to the store? You haven’t? What a shame. They need that UV protection and anti-fog lenses too.
Yes, I’m a scoffer. Maybe it’s because both of my parents came from farms, where animals were spelled L-I-V-E-S-T-O-C-K.
You could have a dog on the farm, if he also herded the cattle and chased off intruders. And you could have cats in the barn, as long as they ate mice. Everything needed to have a purpose on the farm.
But there just wasn’t much of a role in our family for ornamental animals that didn’t pull their weight.
Nowadays, because my daughter, Curly Girl is a dog-maniac, I have ended up with not one but two dogs, and let me tell you, neither one of them earns his keep. I’ve had long, frustrating discussions with them about this point, and we just go around and around. They insist that they have jobs, and I don’t appreciate all the work they do around here.
Buddy the Wonder Dog is a long-haired Jack Russell Terrier, aka Parson Russell Terrier, that we acquired from the pound 10 years ago. These dogs were originally bred to hunt foxes for British aristocrats, so, obviously he fits right into our suburban tract neighborhood. He probably thinks I should buy him some doggles.
He claims his job is to be the household greeter, sort of like the one you always find at Walmart, and I’m sure, the next time a burglar comes in our front door, Buddy will jump him and give him big, sloppy kisses.
Buddy’s biggest claim to fame was the time he kept getting into the neighbor’s yard by using an old rubber swimming pool piled on the side of our house as a trampoline, and jumping over the concrete wall. Nowadays, he’s more sedate, and mostly just roams around being the big brother to our newer dog, Lil Wayne.
About 18 months ago, we also got Lil Wayne from the pound and, as one reader called him, he’s a “generic white dog” who weighs 14 pounds and is some sort of vaguely poodlish mix. The kind, unfortunately, you have to pay to get groomed.
I saw a woman walking a pair of dogs who look exactly like Lil Wayne around Lake Huntington awhile back and she told me her dogs are Maltipoos, so it’s possible that’s what he is.
Especially when I read that Maltipoos can be very hard to house train. I’ll spare you the details on that one, except to say we used to wash a lot of comforters around our house. Nowadays, he’s mostly decided to share his scent with the world at large, I’m happy to say.
Lil Wayne has explained to me that his job, per the breed website, is to be a “companion dog,” which consists of jumping into my lap every time I sit down and looking up beseechingly.
He used to lick us nonstop 24 hours a day, and it only took 18 months of daily, concerted training – “No licking” – involving pushing him down every time he licked to get him to stop.
Buddy clearly has a Napoleon Complex, because his main interest in life is trying to hump enormous dogs at the dog park, by which I mean only their legs, because he’s too small. It’s like watching a dinghy try to get at the U.S.S. Midway. Then, they just shake the one leg to get rid of him, and walk away.
However, this infuriates the violated pets’ owners, who glare at me because they only approve of dog behavior that fits polite human convention.
This is why I never take Buddy to the dog park anymore because, other than his aforementioned activity, the only thing he wants to do there is patrol the perimeter, looking for a way to escape the hellish prison of his life.
Pretty sure that’s why I can’t qualify as a “pet parent.” I don’t take my animals to the dog park (though occasionally Curly Girl does.) They misbehave at the dog beach, so they don’t go there, either. And you’re sure as heck never going to find them at the mall.
I don’t let them sleep with me, because they hog all the covers. My friend Teri claims that alone makes me an animal abuser. Luckily, my son Cheetah Boy lets them sleep in his bed.
And, even if I won the lottery, I wouldn’t be buying them any ZinFanTail dog wine for $12.99 a bottle. Sorry. There is a wine budget in my house, but its for my exclusive use only. And I’m too cheap to spend $12.99 a bottle, anyway, even on myself.