Furbabies

My Dog Has No Class

Let’s start with a top hat

Something strange happens whenever someone compliments my dog. An overwhelming sense of pride washes over me, the same way as when someone compliments my children.

It’s as if I birthed this dog and he contains 50% of my DNA. When we go to the dog park and people say, “Wow, how cute! What a sweet boy!” My heart and my head start to swell.

When we go to the vet and they say, “Here’s our favorite boy!” I beam. Do they say this to everyone? Is he really their favorite? He must be. They say it in front of other patients and I look at the other dog owners with pity. I’m sorry Rex is not their favorite. What can I say? Oscar is fucking awesome. He’s their favorite. They just said so.

Then my mom came to visit, and all that changed. Oscar is 11 months of pure puppy energy and has been known to engage in mischievous puppy behavior to get the attention he knows he deserves.

On the first evening of my mom’s visit, Oscar jumped up and grabbed a paper towel off the counter and ran away with it. My mom turned to me, voice boiling over with disdain, “Your dog has no class.”

Ouch! Arrow to my heart! And wait, what? My dog is supposed to have class?!? Shit! I thought he was doing so well — he is the vet’s favorite after all. But if my dog has no class, and he’s obviously a direct reflection of me, that must mean that I too lack class! Gah!

Horror and panic washed over me. No, no, no — this is not okay. We are not okay! I looked at my dog, who was staring at us, a paper towel hanging out of his mouth. Gosh, I thought. That wasn’t a very classy move, was it? What’s to be done? How can I turn my butt-sniffing, paper-towel-eating pup into a class act? There had to be a solution.

We’ll start with a top hat. Nothing says “class” like a top hat. He could tip his hat when people walk by, like a good classy dog. I could train him to bark with a French accent. He is a French Water Dog after all. I assume that would come somewhat naturally to him.

I’ll teach him about different wine varietals and we’ll do champagne and caviar tastings. He’ll be able to differentiate vintages. “Ahh the 1988 Bollinger, what a triumph! Salut!” What a refined doggy palate he’ll have.

I will teach him “sit” in 10 different languages, including a couple of dead ones, because classy people and dogs always speak at least one dead language, right? “Sede canis!”

He looks awfully handsome after the groomer when they put a little bandanna around his neck and fluff his ears just so. The bandanna, while cute, is far too honky-tonk for a high-class dog, so I’ll need something a bit more debonair, like a tuxedo collar a la Chippendale’s. We’ll get him little cuffs too. How handsome my little Chippendale’s pup will be!

Each night before he retires, he’ll put on his top hat, tap shoes, and will sing ‘So Long, Farewell’ whilst tipping his hat at us. “Adieu! Adieu! To yu and yu and yuuuu!” Then off he’ll go to sleep, like a good, classy doggy.

He’ll wait until we’re all seated before digging into his kibble and we’ll serve it with a side of steak tartare on a Christofle dog dish, which does in fact exist. He’ll drink Evian and snack on wagu jerky.

When we leave him in his crate, we’ll play Chopin to soothe him.

He’ll open doors for ladies and gentleman alike and will stand every time a lady enters the room. If it’s my mom, we’ll teach him to curtsy just for her.

We’ll buy him a quilted Barbour dog coat and a tartan plaid collar to match his Barbour dog bed — all of which are real things.

He’ll accompany us on duck hunting adventures and will sit for a commissioned portrait, proudly clutching the water-fowl in his mouth.

We’ll buy him a boat and he’ll learn to sail.

I have a lot of work to do to transform my beast into a classy gentledog. My mom returns for the holidays soon.

Until then, my classless dog can be found at local dog parks, sniffing every dog’s ass, rolling in mud and dog shit, licking his nethers, and eating paper towels.