My dog gets what she wants, and it 's not me

We all should know our place. In our house, I know mine. With just my wife and me living there, I'm firmly ranked No. 2.

JoAn is in no danger of falling out of the top spot. I know this because she tells me so. If any of the grandchildren are staying with us, of course, I drop a notch or two, but it has been a good life and I have had few complaints.

Lately, however, I've begun to slip even further down the list.

This was never more evident than the other night, when we were relaxing after supper. JoAn was on the sofa -- her sofa -- reading a book.

I was in my chair. It has always been considered my chair, mainly because I never get to lie on her sofa.

One of the dogs started bouncing excitedly against my legs, more animated than usual. Patches was making motions as if to leap into my lap, so I picked her up and plopped her there.

She immediately jumped back to the floor, but kept nipping gently at me.

"Well, finally! Patches has started loving on me the way she does with you," I said smugly.

My wife, you see, is with the dogs during the day, and she performs a lot of the feeding and door-opening for them. (Though they have lived with us for years, Patches and Princess refuse to learn even the most basic household skills.) With time, their allegiance has noticeably swayed over to JoAn's camp from mine.

I'm not saying our dogs snub me completely. Patches will retrieve her ball once or sometimes even twice after I roll it across the floor; then she tires of the game and of me.

Moreover, she and Princess still throw themselves against the window, barking frantically, whenever I drive away and again when I return home at day's end.

I've considered driving down the street, turning around and going right back home, just to see how much they missed me in the 45 seconds I was away, but JoAn says that would appear needy and self-aggrandizing.

Unfortunately, our dogs put on the same barkfest anytime a squirrel hops out of a tree into the front yard, or a utility guy walks by to read the meters or, for that matter, an oxygen molecule floats past in the breeze.

Still, there was Patches, all delirious and bubbly at my feet, just happy to be my dog. My wife didn't allow me to bask in the warm glow for long.

"Don't you see what's going on?" she said.

I certainly did -- unless it was something different from what she had in mind.

She reminded me that Patches recently had begun sleeping in my chair at night instead of her bed.

"And?" I asked.

"And -- you're in her chair now," JoAn said with a laugh. "And -- she wants it back."

I don't know why she's always trying to come between a man and his dog. To prove her wrong, I stood up, stepped aside and patted my legs as an invitation for my faithful companion (Patches, not JoAn) to bound into my arms.

Ignoring me, Patches sprang up into my chair, turned around a couple of times and settled in for a long autumn's nap.

Man's best friend is fast becoming a pet peeve.

Reach Glynn Moore at (706) 823-3419 or glynn.moore@augustachronicle.com.