The Cap’n is allergic to dogs. They make him sneeze and they make him wheeze. He’s not particularly fond of their dumb, affectionate ways. And he finds dog ownership, with its need for constant cleaning up (you know what kind I mean) inexplicably masochistic.
So perhaps you can understand my confusion. The Cap’n and I were watching the 1995 movie, “The Mask” with Jim Carrey last night. Stanley’s Jack Russell terrier, Milo, is possibly the only dog I would ever nominate for an Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. And the Cap’n loves him too. Throughout the movie, he was cooing and fawning over the animal. About two-thirds of the way through the movie, I couldn’t help myself. I turned to my spouse and said, “Wait a minute. You don’t like dogs. At all. They make you wheeze, you hate their smell, and you had to chase a filthy mutt out of our garden today after it pooped, for heaven’s sake! What gives?”
Without ungluing his eyes from the tube, the Cap’n gave me a half-smile and replied, “Dogs on TV don’t poop in your yard.”
Shimshonit 
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