I think the only reason dogs have
survived as our pets is because they are cute. Forget loyalty, forget
that “man's best friend” nonsense. When you walk into the living
room and it looks like a flock of geese exploded because the puppy
discovered the wonders of disemboweling a feather pillow, when you
discover your once very nice set of leather furniture has been
relieved of much of its leathery parts, when you go downstairs to the
kitchen in the morning for a cup of coffee only to find three days
worth of trash have been flung about the room in a joyous frenzy, it is then you
realize that the dog is neither man nor woman's best friend, but quite the contrary. One would never put up with a roommate who behaves in this manner. So, the obvious question is: why do we
let them live with us not only rent free, but with food and medical
and emotional needs all tended to as well. What does one do when
one's “ward” behaves in such an unseemly (and oftentimes costly) way?
Well, this is what I do. I stare in
disbelief, then shout “HEY! Did you do this?” to Maya the puppy.
I have several degrees and can quote Shakespeare, but this is all
that comes to my mind at the time.
Maya says nothing. She just looks at me
wagging her tail. She has very pretty brown eyes I notice, but I'm
not giving in. I need to assert my alpha dog position and make it
clear how very bad she has been.
I try to get my point across again. “BAD
DOG!!” I say most forcefully. I point at the trash, couch,
feathers, (insert sin of choice), glaring into those soft beautiful brown eyes, then point at
her.
Maya responds by dropping to the floor
and showing me her stomach.
Dammit! I will not give in and rub her
stomach. Not this time. This is an egregious act on her part. I ignore her her kowtowing and continue to glare my alpha
laser beams into her eyes. As a more intelligent and superior
species, surely I will get through to her.
Maya stays on her back and proceeds to
wag her tail while upside down. Somehow, she also manages to wag her
body in the process.
Here is where my thinking, clearly
mastered by thousands of years of Darwinian dog adaptation, causes
me to say the following to myself: “Damn dog, she's so cute, damn
dog, that was an expensive couch! Look at this mess! God, she is so
cute, look at those eyes. NO! Don't look at her eyes! She is very
bad. Damn she's cute! What pretty brown eyes.
And so the belly gets rubbed.
Survival of the cutest. I swear.
They've got us figured out.
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