The Macabre Grimace

We have a dog, a ninety-pound Doberman. He's a complete mushpot, totally unlike what you might expect from Hollywood's favorite canine villain. But his displays of affection are a little odd. The dog follows my father around the house like a lurking spectre, looking for an opportunity to reassure Dad of his undying loyalty by poking him in the leg with a cold, drippy nose.

He's always trying to coerce my elderly spaniel into a game of chase. (When your dogs weigh about as much as football players, chase games shake the floor like a herd of African wildebeests in full flight.) Ribo, of course, would much rather sit in front of a fire with an afghan and a bowl of gruel.

Justice's facial expressions are best of all though. His "I'm hungry, feed me" look is enough to bring tears to the eyes of the most calloused cat owner. The transformation from a lithe, muscular hound to a starving stray is amazing. First, he sucks in his belly so that every rib in his lean sides show to best advantage. Then, he folds his ears back and rolls his big brown eyes up at you, drooping his head as if he couldn't possibly drag himself to the nearest Red Cross soup kitchen. It works so well that we abandon him in the living room during dinner so my compassionate three year old sister doesn't end up on a Feed the Children poster.

However, Justice's brightest achievement is a certain sheepish "grin". He's not very demonstrative - he prefers to lean on you instead of licking you - but he pulls out all the stops with this one. Animal psychologists would probably say that Justice's grins are a gesture of appeasement or submission. (No doubt he's simply trying to say, "Master! I'm so glad to see you!") But it comes out all wrong. He wrinkles his nose and pulls back his lips in a twisted macabre grimace worthy of the best Frankenstein's monster.

Sweet dreams.