OK, I have to admit, if you fancy yourself an attention-seeker, the canine life is rather satisfying.

Whether strolling the neighborhood with my human pets, or lounging with my pals in the park (long gone are the days of running ... too rough on my osteoarthritis), I cannot stride ten feet without some stranger gushing, asking my humans if they can pet me -- as if my arthritis-free Two-Leggers had the power to make such a decision.

But I digress.

At every turn I have new folks turning their attention to me, fawning over my every need.

And that's when the gibberish starts.

"Oh, look-at-the-big-doggie!"

"Hello!  Hell-O!  You're such a good boy, aren't you?  Yes, you are!"

"Hi, Pookie!"

(*sigh)

I cannot tell which is worse -- the puppyhood memories revived by such babytalk ("Oh ... my ... goodness, where-am-I-what's-happening-why-am-I-all-wet?!") ...

... or the feeling of self worth oozing out my paws.  ("Am I incompetent?  Am I visibly drooling?  Have I unknowingly fulfilled my lifelong fantasy of marking the human's mother-in-law's foul-smelling sofa?" ... Imagine one of those plug-in scent machines, a dryer sheet, and spicy pepper all rolled into one.  Yeah, you'd take a swipe at overwhelming that stench, too.)

It's enough to make a self-respecting dog let a frisbee go unretrieved.

Humans.  Please.

I know I'm a dog.  In my years, I have grasped this concept.

But I am not a human child.  I am not helpless.

Is it too much to ask that you not speak down to me as if I were?

Don't get me wrong -- there must be some kind, intelligent, self-respecting young people out there.  I think.

But sometimes they can be quite difficult to find.

On a bus ride last week, I was surrounded by five young females pontificating the many ways in which they could shame themselves.

Booze ... boys ... you name it.  Their appetite for excessiveness and their apparent need to vocalize it left little to the imagination.

About the moment my osteoarthritis convinced me that I had knives and daggers secretly waging war in my right leg, I learned that Meghan (with an 'H,' mind you, because that's, like, totally rad!) can, in fact, down 12 shots of tequila before losing consciousness.

About the moment pain spasms hit my lower back, I learned that Tricia B. (the one without the boyfriend because, like, boys are evil) will often go "commando" (meaning nicking her britches) because the boys you would really want to marry, like, really, really dig that.

And about the moment my stomach initiated a symphony of gurgles (OK, not arthritis-related, but annoying nonetheless), I learned that Tricia C. (the one with a boyfriend who is, like, simultaneously totally clueless and the greatest thing since sliced bread) oftentimes fakes illnesses because people, like, totally pay more attention to you when you do so.

(*Growl)

My friends.