Truth be told, I love my dog. A lot of people are fanatical about their dogs, there’s nothing new about that. A lot of people would also say that they have the cutest dog ever. The difference between those “fanatics” and me is that my dog actually is the cutest ever. These other poor saps have been so emotionally manipulated that it’s impossible for them to see how inferior their dog would be to mine. It’s sad really, but a mixture of denial and fantasy world living works for some people.
To prove a point, I can make a quick analogy that will hopefully clear things up for any doubting Thomases. When it comes to beauty, humans have placed the highest value on the ideal represented by the latest batch of supermodels. (Before you start making a point about my leaving out male representation, first inform me of any male model that makes 10 million dollars a year on looks alone.)
So now that I’ve established an accepted standard for supreme attractiveness, it’s best to analyze the attributes that make supermodels successful. Based on media attention and lucrative contracts, I would say Gisele is a prime example for examination.
After conducting careful research, much to the chagrin of my wife, I have concluded that it mainly comes down to three factors: long legs, thin waist, big boobs. Now, examine a photo of my dog, Katy.
She has all of that going on: very long legs, super thin waist and an extremely large chest. If that weren’t enough, she also completes the comparison with her egotistical, prima donna personality. Furthermore, like most supermodels, she was discovered in a humble setting – in this case a local animal shelter.
So there you have some empirical evidence that establishes my dog as being the cutest ever. The next time someone else makes an erroneous comment about their dog being the cutest, please kindly correct them. Feel free to download a picture of Katy to prove your point.
Now as cute as my dog is on the outside, I never really wanted to see what she looked like inside. That’s a mystery that I’m happy to live with – just like the Loch Ness Monster, Area 51 or how Michael Jackson fathered his three children. In fact, I’m pretty content with not seeing the insides of any living thing. I think it stems from a traumatic experience in 4th grade where I almost fainted during a field trip to a blood bank. Of course, I was only 10, so it’s not too surprising. It would be another thing if I was 30 and fainted while getting a hemoglobin-style yellow fever shot. And luckily, that can’t be proven beyond hearsay and rumor.
I was actually fairly calm when I received the X-rays of my precious pooch. Not that I’m an expert – which, if there’s any truth to these fainting rumors, I never could be – but the black and white images seemed to be pretty normal. The veterinarian at the urgent care animal hospital agreed with me on this point, and also commented on the voluminous size of Katy’s bosom when mentioning the unique placement of her organs, which was dictated by her attainment of the feminine ideal of tiny waist and big chest. So now, I know what Katy looks like inside. It doesn’t really change the way I feel about her – except when I think of how I could have spent that $100 another way.
You may be wondering why my wife and I got X-rays of Katy at 11 p.m. at an after hours animal veterinary hospital. You can chalk that up to the inexperience of new puppy parents. To us, the odd looking puke that resembled the yellow and white insides of a Cadbury’s cream egg seemed very odd, and potentially life threatening. More experienced dog owners laugh at us when we tell the story.
We began to feel like we might be overreacting as we noticed the other dogs that were in the animal ER waiting room: the German shepherd who had suddenly lost all use of his limbs, the lab mix with a large splinter impaled through its paw and Yorkshire terrier with internal bleeding. These dogs stood, or laid down, in stark contrast to our dog, whose slight indigestation did not keep her from enthusiastically trying to jump up and kiss the other owners' faces. Regardless, now we know, and at least we had the sense not to opt for the $150 worth of lab work expertly promoted by the veterinarian by his subtle calls to our sense of compassion.
In the end, we did get something out of it beyond the macabre 11x17 glossies – professional validation of Katy’s striking waist to bust ratio. We didn’t set out looking for a supermodel dog, but I’m not so naïve to think that we weren't unduly and subconsciously influenced by the media’s relentless promotion of the feminine ideal.