Barking Mad

Dogs are magic, people. Pure, unadulterated magic. They’re climax predators, with a noble and complex society and a system of education that works a heck of a lot better than any preschool I’ve ever seen, and yet they basically tolerate us, even love us, as we make complete fools of ourselves with them. If you think your dog is looking at you wondering what on God’s green earth you’re talking about, you’re right. My mission is, hopefully, to change that.

Welcome to the wonderful, huge world of the dog-obsessed, we who worship at the Church of the Barking Baptist, the Synogogue of Sealyham, the Temple of Terriers. We spend more on dog shampoo than we do on our own; we collect leashes like trading cards, we can identify the breed of dog by the last one-third of its tail disappearing around a corner. There is no more congenial, competitive, hair-covered group on earth, with secret handshakes, our own language, and extremely dirty cars.

Come on in; let me show you around.