There’s an unspoken rule around the domain here which dictates agape-like devotion on behalf of the canine contingent (my dogs) back toward their master (me, for all tents and porpoises) under two particular circumstances.

Sadly, those events don’t take place when I’m walking them or growling at them.

Yes, I growl at the dogs.  It’s a low guttural noise which resonates in their skulls as orders from the boss.  It resembles the noise I make when on the rare occasion I need to evacuate the contents of my stomach via the same portal in which the contents got there in the first place.

Magic happens when I’m at the commode (“toilet” is such a nasty word when discussing vomit), starting my heave, and I emit that noise.

The dogs hear it from wherever in the domain they may be, and wonder just what it is at that point I want them to do.

Additional magic happens following that noise, but I will offer no description or pictures at this time.

Wow.  A four paragraph tangent just took place on an unrelated matter.  I’m on a roll!

Anyway, that unspoken devotion takes place when either cream cheese or hot dogs (or any general weenie-like substance) make their presence known.

My dogs love that stuff.

Faith will sit there and make full eye contact with you and make the wildest of promises.  If you still bear animosity for the joker at Godfathers who put pickles on your pizza 20 years ago after a rabbit hunting trip, she will find him and present his head on a platter to you.

Hope will rear up on her corpulent, yet evenly displaced tuckus and put her front feet up in the air, and wave ’em like she just don’t care, all for a chance to partake in one of the substances with which you may be taunting them.

It would seem, ladies and gentlemen, that if I’m ever going to get theses two back to a state where they get along and don’t fight, I’ll have to resort to measures and devices involving vomitus growling, hot dogs, and cream cheese.

Cesar Milan will be so proud.