Prometheus 6

I hate dog owners
The disproportionate outcry against Michael Vick proves it: Americans are way too irrational about canines.

I can't respect animals that prefer affection from a different species over their own kind. A man who shuns women to stare plaintively at cows and nuzzle up against them is called something less flattering than a "cow's best friend."

It's not that I hate dogs. I used to believe that I hated dogs. But now I realize that I'm apathetic about dogs, as I am about any animal that is not delicious. Dogs to me are a lot like flounder.

What I've come to realize is that what I really hate is you, the dog owner. Because you're the one who honestly believes that your dog is sentient and that he loves you. Your ego is so grandiose that you can't see that your dog is just using you. Yes, your dog loves you, but only in the way that Anna Nicole Smith loved old, rich men. Yet you honestly believe that your dog's love is particularly meaningful because your dog is special -- almost human, really. In fact, you think, he's an almost-human that happens to be a lot like you. He is a lot like you if you happen to assess colleagues by smelling their butts and enjoy publicly eating your own vomit.

While we've been shunning smokers because they annoy the rest of us, we keep inviting dog owners to terrorize us in new places. JetBlue lets you sit with an uncaged "companion dog," or, as I call it, a "reason to fly Southwest." Starwood Hotels include a whole page of dog items on their room service menu. Maybe I'm squeamish, but I don't like to order from kitchens that, alongside my eggs, are chopping up items referred to as kibbles or bits. And unless you run some sort of international fetching conglomerate, there's no reason to have dogs running around your office.