I have to tell you about my Melbourne mate Tom, who is more fun than The Boss. He doesn't try to teach me anything, like Sit or Stay or Give or Lie Down.
He doesn't chain me up or lock me in my kennel. He doesn't growl at me or look at me like I'm stupid. He takes me on adventures, with a whole lot of other dogs.
This happens when The Boss takes me to Melbourne and he's busy all day. Tom seems to know this and he sneaks up the back lane and lets me and Queenie out and we jump into his van, and we collect our other mates on the way. Sometimes the Golden Leave-it-There comes too.
It's a hoot. He takes us down to the Yarra or the Merri Creek or off into a piece of bush - even the beach sometimes - and we all tear around and play.
Tom knows some good dogs. He has one of his own, Captain, who is part-owner of the business. I'd like to be in business with Tom. But Captain was there first and you don't mess with Captain.
He's a Wiemaraner, and a hell of a big mother. Like, I am huge and scary, as you know, but Captain is something else. He's seven feet tall I reckon and he runs like the wind.
Here's a shot of Captain with Tom in the chair. Now, imagine The Boss inviting me to sit on his lap - looking cool and enigmatic like Captain!
The Boss reckons I don't have the manners or composure to take a portrait like that and I'd have my tongue in his ear. You'd think he'd like that.
Then he said I'd most likely be wet or smelling of dead carp. So what's wrong with that? I reckon Tom would understand me better, and love me just the way I am. According to Tom, Captain is confessing he urinated on two people's legs yesterday - my kind of dog.
The thing is, a proper dog is meant to roll in dead stuff, drag rabbit entrails up to the back door and bring back any really interesting smelly stuff to share with his owner.
If Tom was my owner, he'd say "Well done, General," and pat me on the head, probably wipe the sand off my stomach and between my legs, too. It grates a bit in there.
The Boss just drags me off to the high-pressure hose and reaches for the Woolmix. I don't know how to tell him, but he's not the true pack-leader, like Tom. Woof.