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The key to a dog's heart is through his stomach

Oakland Tribune, Oct 21, 2005

THE OTHER NIGHT I wanted some love from my dog.

So I took a big scoop of Skippy creamy peanut butter, ate it, then stooped down to my beloved canine's level and cooed, "Come on Oscar, give us a kiss."

It was, truly, a loving moment.

But just as Oscar was about to give me some love and little cartoon hearts were about to burst in the air around our heads and Mr. Bluebird was about to alight on my shoulder (it's the truth, it's factual, everything is satisfactual and etc., etc., etc.) my husband single-handedly destroyed the moment.

"Doesn't it bother you," he drawled, because he always drawls when he's about to bring me crashing back to reality, "that he doesn't love you? That he only loves food?"

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Sigh. It's true. My dog doesn't love me. He loves food. The only way I can get Oscar to give me any sort of love is to smear peanut butter on my lips and pucker up.

It'd be humiliating if it weren't so pathetic.

The whole routine has me questioning the validity of this

whole man's best friend, human's best friend, business. If you ask me, the only thing that's been domesticated over how many umpteen years that people have owned dogs is a very strong case of denial in the owners.

Think about it. Do you honestly think that when Cro-Magnon man first wanted a pet, he sauntered over to the nearest wolves den, bent down and asked for a kiss? Considering the pleading, finagling and vast amounts of Milk Bones I go through on a daily basis just to get Oscar the Wonder Dog to stop barking at the pizza delivery guy, I can't imagine the bribery that took place in those first years of domestication to keep Wolfy the Potential Pet from consuming Cro- Magnon man's face.

I should have known this from the start, back when I visited the dog that would be Oscar in a garage down in Morgan Hill. I had this elaborate test worked out for judging the litter -- the dog that would be Oscar shouldn't be too hyper but shouldn't be so laid back that he didn't pay attention to me. He should pay attention to me, but not in a way that involves gnawing with those razor sharp puppy teeth.

It came down to three dogs: One with a brown string tied around his neck, one with a blue string and one with a gray string.

Brown wasn't hyper. He was so unhyper, in fact, that he completely walked away from me. Next.

Blue walked toward me, which was encouraging, until somehow he managed to slip one of those tiny dagger-like teeth around my wedding ring. Visions of shoes, shredded to their rubber soles, flashed through my head. Next.

Then there was Gray. He walked toward me. He stopped. He smiled and posed for the camera. Then he walked up and gave my pant leg a little lick. No teeth, just the right amount of affection, I felt like Goldilocks when I said, "Just right!" And in that moment, Gray became Oscar.

But see, here's the thing I didn't realize until just the other day. The pants I was wearing that fateful day were my cooking pants. The pants I wear when I'm making dinner, am too lazy to wipe my hands on a towel, and instead, wipe them on my legs.

So Gray -- Oscar -- didn't love me. He loved my pants. My food- imbued pants, that if memory serves, had a nice combination of braised chicken and wine woven into the denim as artfully as a falcon-hunting scene in a medieval tapestry.

Oh, I suppose I've always known on some level that Oscar loves food but doesn't love me. The first Christmas card my husband and I sent out after bringing him home included a news bulletin written by him which was filled with sentences that went "Food food food food food food. Food! Food food -- belly rub! -- food food food."

Then there are the tricks that we were able to teach him because they involved food. The best is when I take a Milk Bone, put it in my mouth, bend over, and OSCAR TAKES THE MILK BONE FROM ME.

So you say your dog can climb a ladder, unscrew a lamp with his nose and replace a halogen bulb? Step off. Mine can eat. And as soon as they start making halogen Milk Bones, Oscar is so there.

In the meantime, though, I think I'll stay in this cottage I've built in the Land of Denial. It's cozy. There's the cutest dog on earth curled up at the hearth. He loves me madly.

And there's a hearty supply of Skippy in the cupboard.

You can e-mail Candace Murphy at

cmurphy@angnewspapers.com or call her at (925) 416-4814.

The key to a dog's heart is through his stomach

Oakland Tribune, Oct 21, 2005

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