The Oscars

Hello, and welcome to the most illustrious, fabulous, diamond studded edition of The Daily Bone ever. 

Today we’re talking about—cue the exciting musical fanfare introduction—the Oscars! I am your charming, glamorous host, Chester L. W. Spaniel, chairman of the fabulous Squeaky Party, where we believe everyone should have a $42,000 squeaky toy door prize just for walking on the red carpet (and not peeing on it.) Remember, you must wear your most expensive dog collar, with the sparkly jewels on it designed by a leading fashion house in Paris. The purpose of this long-awaited event is to decide which entertainer has made the most awesome, passionate, fantastic, thought-provoking, mind-boggling, violent, gut-wrenching, glorious … um, noisy, complicated, cutest, most expensive, funniest, scariest … ah … excuse me, I have to yawn now.

But seriously, my equally bored, but still handsome and dashing, co-host, Joseph (Joey dog) Spaniel and I are here to contemplate why the humans do this yearly ritual called the Oscars, and give such rich accolades to a bunch of overdressed actors. They are no different and special than anyone, other than being skinny, and really good at pretending to be someone else. I guess we doggies don’t understand the value that humans place on entertainment. For us, entertainment is chasing squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and birds, barking at intruders, or playing with a squeaky toy. Taking a walk around the neighborhood is great too! We don’t get any award ceremony for being good doggies. We get daily dinner, water, a yard to run around in, a comfy place to sleep, and an occasional new squeaky toy or delicious yum yum treat. In fact, we don’t feel a need for a special award other than a pat on the head or ear scratch for a job well done. 

I guess you could call the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show the Oscars of the doggie world. There’s another big doggie show called Crufts in England too. But I wouldn’t want to be in one of those, even if I qualified. (I’ve been told my nose is too long.) What red-blooded doggie likes getting a bath and brush every day? I’ll bet every single one of those fancy doggies wouldn’t hesitate to roll on a dead fish, eat a moldy french fry from under the couch cushions, or take a long, serious sniff of a another doggie’s pile of poop at the first opportunity. In the end, the winner is the doggie that looks the most like what he’s supposed to look like. The Oscar, though, is awarded to the person who is the best at not looking and acting like himself. It’s a strange, strange world. Oh, and these award show things are way too long. It’s past our bedtimes. Good night.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.