She likes me...she really likes me

I've waxed philosophically, frustratedly, resignedly about our less than energetic house mutt, Shelby, in previous posts here, and here, and here.

I've not hidden the fact that there is no great love lost between the two of us. Well, perhaps I should say I possess no great love for her. A great tolerance. A mild like. I don't know how she feels about me.

Until now.

My gaggle of women inform me that Shelby really does like me. She respects me. She views me as the Alpha dog.

I don't really buy it. The only times I've ever seen her be the least bit inventive is when she thinks she might get some sort of human food. The only times she ever seems like she values us is when she wants to be pet (and no matter how long we pet her, it's always several minutes short of filling her need-to-be-touched tank, and several minutes past my I've-got-affection-to-give wellspring), or when we come home after being away for a few hours and she barks until we'd rather hear anything, even Taylor Swift singing without auto tune at the Grammys, if she'd only shut up.

Here she is at her attentive best. Why? Because she smells popcorn and she knows that my soft-hearted wife will graciously "drop" a few kernels her way.

Like I said, food is the only thing that lights her intellectual fire. Or maybe it's her instinctual fire.

They tell me I need to be kinder to her, because she really does like me, as these photos "prove" according to them.Maybe so. I just can't make the effort to channel my kindler gentler self towards a dog whose primary goals seems to be (1) to emulate a cat [sleeping 22-23 hours per day; only coming to us for food and affection] (2) sounding the incessant bark alarm when the doorbell rings, as if we're deaf to its sound [and, it must be noted, she offers nary a peep if someone simply walks into the house. She only feels called to alert us to those who warn us with the doorbell; unannounced intruders are merely sniffed.] and (3) whining at us on random days in the wee hours of the morning for no apparent reason. [Even my never-endingly patient wife is about done with that little trick.]

Does she like me, really like me. Probably.

And I tolerate her, really tolerate her.