My friend Rachel has a dog. She loves them. I think she likes them more than she likes people. However, it must be said, it’s not really all that hard to be more lovable than a human. People seem to be marked by their stupidity, the endless examples are too limitless to sum up.

Dogs seem to be stupid, in my opinion. Their hobbies include chasing their tail, obsessing over sticks and, my personal favourite, eating excrement. A riotous good time for them can be found by visiting the literal watering hole of your downstairs loo, and they generally look too eager to eat their mushed up meat for dinner.

However, they wear their lack of intellect with a certain charm. Dogs’ foolishness has never caused for a major calamity. The worst thing they’ll do is bite you, or in the case of my two labradors, eat the dish you left on the counter, the very same thing you really wanted to eat for lunch tomorrow. Additionally, they might scare the literal life out of the rabbit you got for your ninth birthday, a week ago. However, you’ll be able to forgive them. It is the perfect revenge for your parents to order two pure bred dogs, artificially engineered for perfectly preserving game. There are countless dogs in shelters, but your silly human family went pedigree, over pound.

Dogs come in all shapes and sizes. Rachel’s dog is a teeny tiny tot, a shaggy white Chihuahua named Pancho. Currently, the raggedy rover resides in Australia, far away from her. Fun facts are limitless when it comes to that little ball of growls. My birthday, the 20^th January, is his birthday. Apparently, he has minimal to no awareness of his size. His Myers-Briggs personality type is INJT. His idea of a perfect date is a stroll along the beach, fishing the evening off with a tapas style picnic.

Dogs, despite their stupidity, invoke major with affections. This renders the whole who is the master really question into hyper drive. For example, my grandmother regularly bankrupts herself when she’s believed her wee mongrel munched a sock. The heartbreak deepens when discovered the sock was merely behind the sofa. At least, the dog got a makeshift juice cleanse; she was looking a bit bloated.

Perhaps, this is reinforces my point about people’s stupidity. It also deepens the debate – are dogs overtly the master? This is an is mighty achievement, considering they cannot compute a diverse range of colour. Most importantly, they’ve never even contemplated leafing through a copy of The Prince by Machiavelli. All this attention, care and respect, without even the groundings in how to manipulate.