Aromatherapy massages. Filet mignon dinners. Spa pedicures.

Lately, it seems that some pampered pooches live better than I do.

Until recently I was nothing more than a callous cat lover, indifferent to the ways of the pooch.

Then I moved next to Max. A ten-year old blonde golden retriever, Max is effectively my neighbor's dog, but when I take him on walks around the neighborhood I often pretend he's mine. As passersby stop to "ooh" and "ahh" over him, I smile that smug smile of ownership and make sly comments like "You're such a flirt, Max." I'm attributing my arrested appreciation for dogs to my inability to accept the untraditional treatments currently available for canines. I know there are dogs currently battling depression with Prozac and other dogs on a regimen of alternative therapies, but I've had a tough time accepting it as reality.