Pets Are People, Too

(Hey! Who you callin' a dumb animal?)

I used to work for an acceptably neurotic American company. But then they bought a dwarf, so I had to move on.

It wasn't the dwarf's fault, of course. Imaginary characters with pointy hats have to eat, too. But I had to get out while I could; while I was still rational. I mean, a dwarf can be handy, no doubt about it, particularly on days when you've taken all you can stand and you just need to throw something.

But there are limits to the capabilities of a dwarf, even a corporate dwarf. A dwarf is not management material - it just smells like it. And if, for whatever cloudy, muddled middle-management reason, you give a dwarf its own office, it's only a matter of time before co-workers start listening to it; before it starts scheduling meetings; before it begins calling you in for weekly "one-on-one's." And before you know it, people start to believe that the dwarf is capable of normal human behaviors - complex cerebral machinations, like hiding your wallet in the toe of your shoe at the beach, or saying "thank you" after getting a speeding ticket. Complex behaviors that indicate higher intelligence.

After all, we're talking about a dwarf.

The term, I think, is anthropomorphism. But that's big word to be lifting without having warmed up first. Be warned not to toss it about carelessly; think twice before shoving it in the middle of a heated argument. You don't just wade into a word like anthropomorphism - you could lose a tooth.

For some background, anthropomorphism is listed in the dictionary as a noun. And I understand that, if you're the type of person who has Facebook as your home page, the previous sentence may contain several confusing words, including "dictionary" and "noun." ("Background," I'll give you. Benefit of the doubt.)

According to my copy of "The 2011 Public Sector Union-Approved Book Of, Like, Words And Stuff," anthropomorphism is the attribution of human qualities to non-human things, like pets, or machines, or politicians. In other words, it's the act of treating a dog (or a dwarf) like a person; of expecting raptors to have a conscience, or expecting members of Congress to have a digestive system.

You've seen anthropomorphism in action, hundreds of times. People will wave at a goldfish, or gob baby-talk at a cat, or put a knit hat on a Doberman. Housewives will coax a stubborn dishwasher, commuters will curse a spent car battery, clueless office clerks will try and bribe a misbehaving spreadsheet, frustrated sales reps will kick a dwarf.

But where it really gets out of control is when people subject their pets to blisteringly inhumane, criminally insulting acts of random cuteness. We've already mentioned a particularly foul example - knit hats on dogs.

It gets worse.

Now hang on to something. Know, gentle reader, that you can buy little booties for your dog to wear when you all go camping. And if you can buy them, that means there's a market for them.

It gets worse.

You can also buy a little matching "Canine Camper" backpack, ergonomically adjusted for Fifi or Fido.

That's just sad.

Picture the scene. As the poor pup's owners (Chaz and Trixine) are busily trying to extract the backpack from its sadistic molded-plastic sarcophagus, Bowser must be anthropomorphically rolling his eyes and thinking, "Oh, I'm not believin' this. Matching backpack? What's up with that? I'm still nauseous over the hat. Look, bipeds, I wouldn't be caught dead in this AT HOME. But we get out in the wilderness and you suddenly go all Stupid Pet Tricks on me?"

For all I know, there's a matching fold-out butane stove and arf-activated color-coordinated canteen. (monogram not included)

It gets worse.

In some coastal communities ... I forget which ... public safety officials are using dogs as shark-spotters. Again, I forget which coast, but I'm guessing it's California. In Florida, all dogs are either auditioning in Orlando to understudy Pluto or Scooby Doo, or else they're frantically trying to avoid Vietnamese restaurants.

North of the Florida line, most dogs are gainfully employed as pets, or assisting Homeland Security in not enforcing immigration laws, or modeling Sierra Club knit hats. (In-between jobs, they can be found killing a little time randomly fertilizing my yard. Apparently, they have a map.)

But on the coast, callous humans are using clueless canines to spot sharks. Since the dogs don't realize what they've been asked to do, and since they probably never saw "Jaws," I assume it works like this: the dogs hop around in the mid-height surf until they spot something swimming by that looks suspiciously like a long grey cat, or a very plump dwarf. A genetic response fires in the dog, and it leaps around, thrashing and making food-like noises, until the shark has its own genetic response, which involves lots of aquatic dental work, and which I won't discuss here in front of children, or Facebook users. Let's just say that, last week, when Sparky the shark-spotter's owners went shopping for four "Backwoods Booties" and a canteen, I hope they kept the sales receipt.

What is it, exactly, that we expected the dog to do? Eyeball the antediluvian predator, maybe, make a quick calculation, then turn to the lifeguard and mutter, "You're gonna need a bigger boat."

It gets worse.

Ponder, human, this horrifying thought. You realize, don't you, that somewhere ... right now ... somewhere out there are the five humiliated dogs who were forced to pose for the original "dogs playing poker" velvet painting? What were we thinking? What shame! How do these poor dogs look themselves in the mirror, assuming they know what a mirror is, and how to look in one, if they had access to one, or borrowed a friend's, maybe to adjust their knit hat, or to discuss reflective optics?

And now, everywhere there's an empty lot on a busy street, some human is profiting from the sale of these paintings, along with their poor cousin, "dogs playing pool," and the obligatory assortment of oversized velvet paintings that always seem to feature Elvis, an attractive dark-skinned couple with huge Afros, or a dwarf dressed up like a matador.

Shameful. As the "top of the food chain" around these parts, we really ought to ease up on the animal kingdom. Think before you act. Pets are people, too.

Just this week, I read a Facebook posting from someone named Amber. Based on her "profile," I thought Amber was a cute, perky legal assistant with some kind of out-of-control lung edema. As it turns out, "Amber" is an ex-con who lives up a spur road outside of Tucson, collects commemorative railroad plates, and cross-breeds pit bulls for resale to California lifeguards. But that's not the point.

Amber was all excited because he or she was preparing for their annual pig roast. Every year, it seems, Amber and his or her family invite people over, and they cook a pig. Every year.

Don't you know that must get old for the pig.

Think, people. We can't just keep kicking these animals around.

After all, we're not talking about a dwarf.