Mostly whimsical reflections on life
There was a lot of explaining to do at my house about overlooking National Dog Day. No one was more upset than Brûlée, the fuzzy, lovable family dog.
It was an exciting day. Daughter Sophia got her driver’s license and attended the first day of her senior year at school. My car dealer offered to buy my car. Ron Wyden called to arrange lunch.
You would think a pint-size pooch could overlook a small oversight like forgetting National Dog Day. Instead she pouted, barked and demanded to eat my pork chop. I was in the doghouse with my dog.
I’ve been in the doghouse before, but for more egregious reasons, which we don’t need to discuss.
To be honest, I didn’t realize there even was a National Dog Day. Now I know it began in 2004 as a way to build awareness of crates full of pups in shelters waiting for loving parents. I repent my omission.
I went online and saw hundreds of pictures of family pets posted fondly by their owners. There was a bull dog sleeping with its tongue out and a collie rolled onto its back. A large dog had three tennis balls in its bulging mouth. Another was wearing a fedora and riding in the back seat of a taxi.
It made me wonder what I would have done to celebrate National Dog Day. A shampoo bath? Two beggin’ strips instead of one? A trip to Starbucks for a venti-sized puppuccino?
Then it occurred to me, my dog is pampered every day. Morning, mid-day and evening walks. Breakfast treats. Belly and ear rubs. And a warm dog bed. Brûlée even gets dog sabbaticals at a man’s house who caters to lovable, energetic, medium-sized dogs.
Maybe the real doghouse isn’t so bad.
But there is no denying it, our dog suffered attention-deficit syndrome. And she clearly let us know. I bent over for the nightly face lick and got nada.
An apology didn’t work. A promise to remember National Dog Day next year didn’t go over all that well, either. I will just have to live with the shame until August 26, 2014.
Who’s running this doghouse anyway?