By my estimation, triangulated by way of the Boy Scout Laws, your average dog is four twelfths of a boyscout. Trustworthy, loyal, friendly, and cheerful, your garden variety cur is already a better dinner companion than most people I know, and that’s assuming that it’s the type that will piss on your leg.
Beyond that, one hundred bucks will yield enough training to add five more laws to your canine’s repertoire: helpful, courteous, kind, obedient, and clean. The final tally is nine twelfths (which a third grader can help you reduce to three fourths) the value of the world’s most helpful uniformed humans.
And yet seeing as how my dogs have shown no tangible opinions about the rights of gays (and the Boy Scouts of America have gone out of their way to tell me about theirs), I’m inclined to round that fractional number up and spend my time with the hairier of the compulsive butt investigators.
It isn’t so much a problem with the obsession as it is an issue of disclosure. While typing on my laptop tonight at no point did my dog raise his head and say “want to hear what I think about other people’s asses?” It’s not that he doesn’t spend much of his time peering into the bunghole of a thousand fuzzy strangers. He most certainly does just that, but he’s also maintaining his reputation as man’s best friend and is keeping it to his own damn self.
That’s a good boy. For my part I’m exercising tolerance for his world view, seeing as how he’s a dog and all. Now I’m going to scritch him behind his ears and there will be no talk about how one of us has breath like toilet water.