“My” Dog? What dog?

Oh, okay, you mean that dog. . .

People. I realized I’ve made a grave error. Somehow, I’ve led you to believe that I have a dog. I mean really, I should have known. Obviously, that picture of me holding that cocker spaniel and those other dog photos I’ve shared here on the blog and on Twitter and Facebook would cause anybody to draw that conclusion.

I feel awful.

But here’s the truth. I, personally, don’t have a dog. Yeah, whatever, so there’s the afore mentioned cocker spaniel who just happens to live in my apartment. I occasionally feed him and stuff, and if I’m in a really good mood I’ll indulge him in a riveting game of squeaky toy soccer.

He’s not my dog though. He’s my mother’s.

It’s true. There are two undeniable facts.

A) My mother chose him. I, personally, wanted his brother, who was a bundle of energy and love, and had a gorgeous black coat I wanted to bury my face in. But noooo. My mother wanted the “interesting” looking dog who seemed calmer. Hmph.

B) The dog, who shall remain nameless, loves my mother oodles more than he loves me. Don’t believe me? True story: Last July, my mother came to visit me, and was resting with the dog on my bed in front of my air conditioner. I walked in and he glared at me, then growled under his breath, and then barked. Clearly, I was intruding.

And let’s not forget about the hunger strike and front door vigil he staged when my mother had surgery.

For some reason, she loves him back! Have you seen his squeaky toy collection? He’s the envy of every freaking dog in Park Slope. My mother must have secret stock in Petco.

You know what else? They talk via speaker phone.

They’re tight. And that’s fine. They can have each other.

Because no dog of mine would have such chutzpah.

No dog of mine would ever steal tissues, or steal a from the recycling. Or steal an entire loaf of challah, eat almost all of it, and hide bits and pieces under my duvet and in his crate. Can you believe I caught him with his head under the blanket and his tush in the air? Who does he think he is, Jean Valjean? He sleeps on a feather pillow for crying out loud.

Speaking of feather pillows. . . No dog of mine would hog the bed the way he does. He’s 25 pounds and manages to take up 98 percent of the bed. One of these days, I’m going to wake up on the floor.

No 25 pound dog of mine would ever have the audacity to bark at a great dane. OMG the Napoleon complex!

No dog of mine would ever shimmy under the bed and unplug my computer from the world’s most hard to reach outlet, then go and pee behind my bedroom door before going into the living room to howl because a neighbor had the neve to unlock his front door. That’s just barbaric.

I could go on, and tell you about the time he moved a chair so he could climb onto my desk and steal a salad (do you know how hard it is to pick cranberries out of wicker?), or about the time he ate a five pound bag a kibble while I was at work, earning the money to pay for said kibble.

But you get the picture.

If I had a dog, it would be a real dog. Like a lab. Not this cartoon version of the species I live with. It would be loyal, and sweet, and love going fishing and stuff with The Lucky Mr. Mel.

It would bring me my slippers. Not eat them.

It would sleep at the foot of my bed and keep my feet warm. Not hog the pillows.

Anyway. Sorry I lied. It was completely unintentional.

Just remember – I, personally, don’t have a dog. My mother does.

P.S. Please don’t call the ASPCA until you’ve read this. Thanks.