Ok, come on. Look at that little face. I want one.
I have never owned a dog. My parents’ fur babies are fluff buddies of the feline variety, and my cat Calamity (aka Callie, Calzoo, Bralzoo, The Zood, Be Be Brals, or any variation therein) are all decidedly un-poochy. My ideal dog, is my friend’s dog. I romp and play with it, enjoy its unyielding loyalty and wholesome grins, and then joyously let said friend take over when the I-gotta-go-dance leads them outside – come rain, snow, or toad apocalypse – to experience the aromatic squander of the last dog chow session.
But, drawing dogs, now that’s a hoot. They’re all built so uniquely and expressively, from the elegant stretched lighting Greyhounds, the melting jello countenance of the Bloodhound, the positively pocketable Pomeranian, the giraffeishly square Great Dane, to the 1980s power ballad back-up singer coiffed Chinese Crested. But it’s the exuberance and the proportional hodgepodge of the Welsh Corgi that makes me giddy.
This doggy doodle (I call him Curly Howard) is busting a boundin move all over freshly fallen snow. I can picture his sausage body sinking right up to his bat ears in frozen goodness and then launching himself into another kersplat of snow belly floppery. “Yes, but could a stump legged, bottom heavy Corgi do that in reality?” you think to yourself with an incredulous brow. Well I prefer Elwood P. Dowd’s stance, because I’ve struggled with reality for 26 years, and I’m happy to state, I’ve finally won out over it.