My Dogs Love Me, Honest!

Sometimes I worry about whether or not my dogs really love me. Okay, if you're a parent, you're probably saying "sometimes I worry about whether or not my kids really love me", but I didn't raise any children, so I worry about the next best thing. Of course, those of you with neither kids nor dogs are probably saying "sometimes I worry about whether or not Paul is sane." I worry about that too, sometimes.

But my dogs do love me... I think.

I have two dogs. A big horse of a mixed-breed cocker spaniel, lab, golden retriever thingie that knows all of the Lassie tricks. Sit. Roll over. Beg. Drive a jeep. Shake. Splint a broken leg. Treat a snake bite.

The little dog is a beagley-terriery-labby type dog. Unlike his older "sister", he's a dumb as a box of rocks.

Their unique names look like computer passwords -- a random mix of upper and lower case letters at least six digits long and including at least one numeric character. To make life easy, you can think of them the same way the volunteer fireman next door did -- one big primary dog and one small emergency back-up dog. Or as I often do, "Toadie" and "Sycophant".

When I come home at the end of the work day, they meet me at the door, tails wagging. Every day. I can't name the last time my wife met me at the door with her tail wagging. (Actually, I could, but some things you just don't discuss in public, even for a laugh.)

My dogs don't screech at me saying, "you left the toilet seat up again!" No! In fact if they could talk, they'd say, "Thanks, Dad, for the fresh water!" (And for you guys out there -- tired of being yelled at about this problem? Just do your business a few times with the seat down and see how much you get yelled at. You can't win.)

My dogs love me. But sometimes I think that they love food more. When I come home at lunch time, they don't jump into my arms, they run past me to the dog biscuits left on my doorstep by the mailman. They consider it tribute that the vanquished mailman leaves when they chase him off each day. Only after the biscuits are gone do they finally run to me to welcome me home.

At least, I think they love me. Or maybe they love the food I give them. They smile to me the same way I smile to my boss. "Sure, Boss, I'd be thrilled to come in to work on Sunday. Sure, Boss, I can get that report written before I go home tonight. Sure, Boss, I love it when you play fetch with me and scratch me behind my ears. Uh... where's the food?"

Lassie loved Timmy, right? Rin Tin Tin loved whoever it was that Rin Tin Tin loved. Freeway loved the Harts. Tiger loved the Bradys. Frasier's dog loved... uh... Frasier's dad. So my dogs must love me.

Right?

They'll follow me everywhere. Especially if I'm carrying a hamburger. Doesn't that prove something?

But deep down inside, I know that if Timmy fell down the well, Lassie wouldn't run to get help until after she ate the hamburger he left behind.

Did I make you laugh? Want more? Here are a few more of my humor columns on Vocal

Fortune Favors the Bold

Why Clickbait is Wonderful

Language Confusion

Waddling to Work

What, Me Volunteer?

I'm an Urban Legend

Life Under the Glide Path

I Miss My Hair

I'm a Kennedy Cousin

Super-Secret Diet Secrets

My Dogs Love me. Honest!

Yucky Foods!

Trapped in K-Mart

Geminis are Skeptics

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