Dog overcoats, dog dresses, dog bling, dog shoes, dog hats, dog haircuts, dogs that yap, dogs that yip, dogs that yodel, grrrrrrrr . . .
Ladies and gentlemen, I submit the following.
The defining moment of doghood is not the clothes you wear, nor the jewelry that matches your wardrobe, nor the designer ?Food de Jour? in your bowl. No.
The defining moment is: Are you larger than the cat and thus able to scare a cat? Does your bark sound firm and dog-like, or do you sound like a strangled car horn? Do your fuzzy paws get dirty from playing in the dirt?
The answers to the foregoing, by any self-respecting dog should be, ?Yes! I?m scary to cats. I bark and the world knows. Aaannnndddd dirt is not only on my feet at this moment but also in my fur, and preferably I?m eating some right now. Woof! Bark! Woof!?
If that is not your answer, I am sad to report that you are a genetically designed cat bred to look like a dog.
My bestest friend, Boomer, is a shining example of dog. He is a Chesapeake Bay Retriever with a dark brown coat, similar to a chocolate lab, while his front chest is brawny and wide, bred for breaking ice to retrieve items floating in the water. Pride of his species, the only thing this dog loves more than eating is swimming, usually in the pursuit of some mighty log. Yes, I said log. While most dogs may retrieve a twig, maybe a larger branch or even possibly a chunk of firewood, my dog retrieves logs six inches thick and eight feet long.
Boomer enjoys a good mud puddle on a hot summer day and will be seen frolicking with all his might in an attempt to ensure maximum soil coverage. He enjoys long walks, preferably at the expense of another animal running in fear for its life. And he is an Aquarius. In his spare time he can be seen chewing firewood into firewood confetti while gently smiling at his loved ones.
While Momma Bear more affectionately refers to my Boomer as ?stupid brown dog?, he knows that she loves him dearly. As he barks in anticipation, the gun rises and he quiets, waiting for the moment; then like the Olympic sprinter, *BANG* and he?s off!!! He retrieves our prey from the pond and in a show of affection will run our quarry to lay it at momma?s feet. He then shakes the water from his fur beside her with a look on his face saying, ?Isn?t my water love-erly master? See! It is love-erly. I will share my love-erly water with you, master. Wait master! Why are you running ? Ooooo ooooo ooooo, is it playtime, master? Yay. Let me get my log!? At which point he runs with joy in his heart to share his log and takes the legs out from under the love of my life.
I believe he does this as a way for me to be her knight in shining armour, taking one for the team if you will. Good job, boy! I knew you had my best interests in mind. Yes, my Boomer is the dog; he is all that woofs at its finest.
To all ye naysayers with ?cat-dogs? named Fifi, FrooFroo, Missee, or Mr. Jingles, I will say live and let live, for all God?s creatures are precious.
In finale though . . . (muahahaha) true dogs of the world, unite! Go out and eat a cat today. Today, Saskatchewan . . . tomorrow the world.
