When people ask me if my dog is a mutt, I tell them, "No, he’s a moron."

King Louie is a twelve-year-old, toy poodle who has the intelligence of rock salt. The day we brought him home, the husband and I decided to name him Zippy; but within hours, we realized that name did not suit him.

On his first day of obedience class, the instructor informed me that Louie was untrainable. That was just after she ripped out most of her hair and right before she called him a Jell-O brain and ran from the building sobbing. Louie not only flunked the class, he was dishonorably discharged.

We dubbed the cantankerous canine King Louie, not because of his regal demeanor or his majestic appearance. He earned that title because of his overbearing ways. The domineering little devil rules our home with an iron paw. He demands absolute respect from his human subjects. Louie changes from cute little fur ball into ferocious beast in 3.5 milliseconds when someone attempts to usurp his authority. He snarls viciously at those who dare to extricate him from his couch throne.

Besides being a control freak with a brain the size of a Rice Krispy, King Louie is a loner. He hates drop in guests – or any guests for that matter. Perhaps his disagreeable temper is the result of painful periodontal disease. Either that, or he’s not getting enough fiber in his diet. For whatever reason, the toothless little tyrant discourages intruders by baring his shriveled gums and growling obscenities.

Though his domain covers forty wooded acres, the King doesn’t roam very far from home. In fact, he doesn't care to go outside much at all, especially unescorted. And he is adamant about not venturing forth in the rain. It takes three sumo wrestlers to force this dwarf of a dog out the door during inclement weather. Being a passive aggressive pooch, Louie retaliates by relieving himself on the front porch.

Louie has made his mark -- several in fact -- not on the world, but in our home. Though he can roam free in our 3,000 square foot, two-story house, when he feels the urge to throw up or have an uncontrollable bout of explosive diarrhea, he heads straight for the oriental rug. If we toss him outside, he stands staring at the door until we let him back in. Once inside, he picks up where he left off and resumes spurting something out from one end or the other. Louie faithfully obeys the doggie code of ethics which lists rule number one as NEVER regurgitate outside.

The mangey monarch monopolizes my bed and whines at the bathroom door when I’m in the tub. He jumps on my lap when I’m typing, and he watches me when I go to the bathroom. He clings to me like a hair on a grilled cheese sandwich.

Louie’s favorite bone is my ankle. After nine years of intensive training, he hasn’t yet learned to sit. In fact, he barely knows how to stand. However, he does respond to a few voice commands. For instance, when I say "come," he instantly runs in the opposite direction. When I say "stay," he leaps up and attaches himself leech-like to my thigh. When I order him to "heel," he gnaws on my shoes. When he chases cars and I yell, "No!" he immediately steps up his pace. I can’t get him to fetch either. The only stick he’s interested in is a bread stick, and the only balls he’ll chase are meatballs.

I think the problem is that Louie doesn’t understand English. Since poodles come from France, I tried speaking French to him. Who knew he wasn’t bi-lingual? I said "oui oui" and he did just that! So now I’m taking French lessons so I can communicate with him in his native tongue.

This high-strung hound turns up his royal nose at milk bone biscuits and dog chow, preferring instead french fries, cherries jubilee, and linguine in clam sauce. This is one thing we have in common. In fact, we’re a lot alike in the eating department.

Neither of us relishes what is nutritious, and we both occasionally eat till we’re sick. I, however, do not gobble food whole or throw up twice my body weight – in bed. Neither do I stubbornly plant myself under the dining room table while whining, yipping, and drooling throughout the meal. I also refuse to ingest paper plates, no matter how sumptuous they smell; and I would never curl up on dirty underwear and nibble on my husband’s feet.

Recently, His Peskiness accompanied us on a long trip . . .

Sorry, but to read "the rest of the story," you will need to order the book HUGS, HOPE, and PEANUT BUTTER!