Don't bother with characterization. They all love us anyway.
I don’t like dogs. Never have. Never will. There, I said it. Depending on the breed, dogs register any emotion from indifference to terror with this particular blogger.
Oh, I know I’m in the minority. Believe me. Ask all my grammar school friends whose parents received calls from mine about my not being able to handle houses with dogs. Ask my aunt (first cousin once removed, if you want to be technical) in New Jersey, at whose house I took it on myself to intermission Thanksgiving dinner by climbing on the sofa to get away from her dog. And I’ve heard all the common appeals to qualify (“Oh, you couldn’t possibly dislike our dog,” “Our dog is like a part of the family”). No, I don’t like your dog either. And I think your kissing it on the mouth is affirmatively filthy.
I’ve taken my share of derision and even scorn at my doggy distaste, but I prefer to view myself as preternaturally attuned. I can see these creatures for what they really are – beasts. A guy I knew as an underclassman in college (didn’t know him; he’s an acquaintance of the wave-and-nod variety) has one in his campus house, which I’m sure is in violation of the rules, but that’s not the point. This animal is white, light-eyed, up to my waist on four legs and arguably outweighs Alicia Sacramone; he calls it a dog, but I think that’s the wrong word. It’s a wolf. Let me repeat that: he has a wolf. Twice a day, he can be spotted around Brown’s campus walking a wolf on a leash. Call me paranoid, but I find it strange that the boy keeps a creature by his bed that, in its state of nature, would Lon Chaney Jr. his face off.
Dogs defecate in public. That’s disgusting. I can’t say this for certain, but I’d place good money on the claim that if a rhinoceros were to squat on the Campus Green, there would be some uproar. When it’s a dog, though, it’s adorable. Excuse me while I hurl.
Hollywood certainly knows how to parlay the general populace’s dog worship into millions. Drawing only from my own childhood, I can recall Air Bud, Homeward Bound, See Spot Run, Shiloh and Beethoven. I’m not even speaking of these movies’ quality (I unsurprisingly don’t like any of them, but there you have it); I’m speaking of the implication flung at my seven-year old self that I ought to instinctively connect with dog protagonists and consider them, in and of their selves, entertainment.
Give little Nick superior kids movies like Toy Story and The Sandlot any day, and not just because their makers had the sense to make the dogs the villains.
