Love me, love my dog

Why...

When you come to my house do I suggest you don’t criticise my dogs as I won’t judge your children (at least not out loud).

Now I completely accept some people don’t like dogs... in the same way I accept that some people believe Elvis Presley is alive, well and riding Shergar across Area 51.

The thing about dogs is their love is unconditional. Even Hitler’s pet Alsatian Blondi no doubt thought Adolf a loveable chap who fed him scraps and gave him a splendid kennel complete with a swastika weathervane. That pooch was always pleased to see Mein Fuhrer, even after a hard day’s genocide.

In fact dogs are the ultimate sycophants. They laugh at your jokes, look at you admiringly, even perform tricks on demand... of course in return they expect to get food and shelter.

Dogs have indeed come a long way from their wolf forebears and many are more metrosexual with clipped nails and smart coats than flea infested hunters of old. In fact were man to become extinct in a haze of radioactive mushroom clouds, I’m afraid man’s best friend would follow pretty shortly afterwards.

The idea that Pepe the Chihuahua would survive in a post apocalypse world is farcical unless the radiation allows him to develop thumbs to open any tins of Kanga Chunks that he might uncover in the ruins of the post atomic blast.

...and another thing

On the other hand, I must admit my dogs have their own very specific likes and dislikes. Take our fitness instructors left leg. This to my pug is sexier than Kim Kardashian’s butt attached to Crufts Champion Pug… with the result he is permanently trying to roger it.

My French Bulldog on the other hand believes the vacuum cleaner is a cross between the devil’s scrotum and Garfield.

Both to me can do no wrong, even when eating a carpet or letting off enough methane to lift a hot air balloon.

But even that has a value. Rolling Stone Keith Richards has always had a dog in the house “so I always had someone to blame if I farted”!

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