I’ve been enjoying Stanley Coren’s classic book, The Intelligence of Dogs. In order to rank canine intelligence by breed, Coren analyzed a questionnaire he’d put together on the subject, to which over half the dog judges in North America responded.
Out of 76 breeds, the Afghan Hound came in last. I’m sure the fact that this dog is blonde and vaguely resembles Paris Hilton is just a coincidence.
Sorry, Afghan Hound aficionados, but I can’t resist. So…“Did you hear the one about the pregnant Afghan that refused to have the pups because she didn’t think they were hers?”
There is probably an Afghan Defamation League forming at this very moment. What can I say? “No, really,” (delivered in my best Woody Allen voice) “I don’t wish to be facetious or didactic in any manner. I love Afghans. My favorite rugs.”
Okay, sure. Afgans are beautiful and graceful and weren’t meant to tutor our children in art history, after all. As eye candy they are unsurpassed.
I was at the Embarcadero the other day, gazing out over the foam on my Gordon Biersch into the rich orange evening light of Treasure Island, thinking about how to begin this column. I was waiting for a sign and, sure enough, I was soon “touched by an angle.”
Within moments, the lady at the next table spilled half her pilsner into her purse. She let out a small scream. Her companion, without missing a beat, glanced down into the soggy clutch and quipped “What’s this? Your hair-of-the-doggie bag?”
I resolved to start scribbling the moment I got home. But since I could now write the whole pub junket off on my taxes, I thought it best for the moment to continue my field research over a basket of fish and chips and another IPA.
Ever wonder how the dog next door can bark for hours, waking up half the people on the block, while his owner sleeps obliviously through the night? Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “pet peeve.”
Well, I got an idea when I read recently that dogs like classical music. (Makes sense, I guess, them being such a “snooty” species and all.) Apparantly they don’t respond to other musical styles, but Mozart’s “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik” makes them stop barking in two shakes of a violin bow.
So, next time you want to put the kibosh on the midnight barkfest, try pumping up the Tchaikovsky. If nothing else, your neighbor might mistake the cannons in “The 1812 Overture” for warning shots and bring those cacophonous K9s into the house for the night.
Have you ever noticed how politicians like to get their pictures taken with their dogs? They’re trying to send us a subliminal message. “See this animal? I toss him a scrap of pork now and then and he follows me everywhere, hanging on my every word. Take a lesson, voters.”
Of course, most dog owners see right through that ploy. As Dave Barry once wrote, “You can say any fool thing to a dog, and the dog will give you this look that says, ‘My God, you’re RIGHT! I never would have thought of that!’”
As the electioneering starts afresh, let’s not allow our politicians to haul us around by our ears, like Lyndon Johnson did his hapless beagles.
Herb Canine is one of writer/musician Tad Toomay’s many alter egos.
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