My mom Cathy was reading the Wall Street Journal last weekend, when she came across an article: Is Obama too Fit to be President.
Cathy was using some words that an innocent dog like me should never hear. I won’t tell you what she’s wearing as she types away at her copywriting business. And we can’t talk about her decorating skills, either. Some people are nesters. Let’s just say Cathy isn’t.
“Who cares about what people look like?” she said, tossing the paper across the room (not in my direction, thank goodness). “We all need to work at home, where no one can see us. Anyway, what would have happened to us if people judged politicians by looks back in World War II? Roosevelt in a wheel chair. Churchill about 100 pounds overweight. And somehow we won a war.
“And why are we still looking up (literally and metaphorically) to women in stilettos? When women can wear comfy shoes,” she concluded, “we’ll have real power. Let’s liberate our feet.”
Well, mom, let’s take my liberated paws and go for a nice walk. I don’t care what I look like, although every day someone gives me a compliment. “Cute dog.” “Beautiful fur.” “Sweet face.”
But I have to be fair. Cathy doesn’t choose housemates based on looks. I looked pretty awful in my Petfinder.com mug shot. And we just adopted a cat that looks like a basketball with fur.
Sometimes dog owners think too much. It’s my job to keep our eye on the prize: dog parks, treats and chew toys. What else matters?