A Canine View of Speciesism

Like anyone else’s. a dog’s life has both its up and its downs. Unike our feral cousins, and I’m not speaking of Colin, we don’t have to expend a lot of energy chasing down prey. Our meals are provided, along with veterinary care, sometimes including vision and dental, and shelter. I’m not going to tell you that dog food’s delicious, because it isn’t, but those of with soft-hearted humans commonly get to lick their plates after meals.

But boy, do we get patronized, That whole “Who’s a good boy?” thing! Do humans take as a given that the dumb-in-the-literal sense and taciturn among them are nitwits? Of course they don’t. That would be mega not-woke! So why is our God-given inability to speak perceived as indicative of stupidity?

Speciesism, anyone?

Share A Legend In His Own Minefield

You know who has a really good sense of what enslaved Africans must have felt like all those centuries they were patronized, and given scraps to eat.

Even our elders are wantonly infantilized.

And then they award us “treats” for something as simple as sitting or staying put! Like those things are real challenging or something! I’ve never wished more fervently for the ability to speak than when I’m given a treat for something you could probably teach a goldfish or President Trump to do. Generally, the so-called treats are as tasty as the eraser ends of pencils. Don’t believe me. Try one.

This whole infantilizing “fur baby” business! Patronizing much, humans?

Speaking of feces, as I’ll admit we were not. What a laugh we have when our so-called stools are runny, and they grumble when trying to make the sidewalk presentable.

None of us has any good reason to believe in an afterlife. So no, Brad and Megan. We’re not going to come bounding across the Rainbow Bridge to you with tails wagging frantically when we’ve both snuffed it. Here’s something to chew on. When we’re in agony and without hope, you…put us to sleep. When other humans are in agony they want desperately to escape, you make them go to Switzerland or wherever to get somebody to help them. It makes me grateful to be canine.

I will admit to concern about my human’s mental health. I often hear her bemoaning the accelerating unaffordability of some of the luxury items she loves —dill weed, Pantene® hair products— but every afternoon, when it seems she might be stalking prospective clients for her matchmaking and life coaching businesses, she puts everything aside and takes me to the park, seemingly intent on losing fuzzy green tennis balls. She keeps slinging them as far away as she can. Because I’m fond of her, I run after them and return them to her. Doe she gratefully coo, “Who’s a good boy?” and scratch my belly? She does not. She picks up the slobbery ball, which I can assure you is nothing like delicious, and flings it away again, quite possibly involuntarily! I am reminded of the trope about repeating the same behavior over and over expecting a different result being indicative of mental illness.