It all started when we got a corgi instead of a mutt. My wife and I were full-on for the mutt, having each had one as a child. But then we started looking at all the sleek new designer models that are always prancing along the sidewalks of Portsmouth. Our house is too small for a big dog, but I refused to be one of those middle-aged men walking a rat on a string. So we compromised on a mid-sized canine -- something stylish, yet environmentally friendly. Maryellen was leaning toward the terrier model, but nothing too yippie or high-maintenance. Then five years ago we saw the perfect breed parked beneath a wrought-iron table in Market Square at what was then Café Brioche. It was like a dog, only shorter.

"What is that?" we asked the owner.

"He’s a tri-color Pembroke," the owner replied. "Queen Elizabeth prefers these Welsh corgis to the Pembroke variety too."

"How much do they go for?" I asked, price always being a factor.

"They don’t come cheap," the owner said, "but they get good mileage."

So we took the plunge. I knew we were in trouble when the Vermont breeder insisted that there be one "stay at home parent" before turning over the title papers. What had begun as a sport utility purchase was morphing into an adoption.

The dog has remained focused on Maryellen. She often takes him to work. They go on long walks almost every day. They live in a society of dog people. He waits by the window when she is gone. He barks when she returns, and barely notices my comings and goings. We are friendly, but not ridiculous together. I am the Alpha Dog, and he knows his place.

Over the years I have worked hard to keep my distance and avoid brand loyalty. Dogs are dogs. We do not drink from corgi mugs or display "Corgi on Board" bumper stickers. Although our dog knows he is gifted, we treat him like any other pet. He has to wear his seat belt in the car, never rides in the front seat, speaks when spoken to, and rarely gets his own ice cream cone or fast-food burger.

So far our corgi does not wear clothes or jewelry. That, for me, is the first sign of doggy dementia. Okay, he once wore a set of Velcroed rubber boots after he cut a paw on some sharp shells at the beach, but it was temporary. He does wear a life-preserver when we go boating, but that’s practical, not fashionable.

What has me worried is the corgi wall calendar I just created for my wife on VistaPrint.com. You simply upload a dozen digital photographs and a slick color calendar arrives in the mail. I had plenty of good photos on file, and it seemed like a nifty gift idea. A friend of ours did the same for her daughter, but then again, her daughter is a human – and our son is a dog.

Then last Sunday we drove 30 minutes to join a group of like-minded dog owners at a "Corgi Meet-up" in a park in Kingston, NH. Corgis are herders, and lacking a field full of sheep, they take turns herding themselves. I must say, the little critters were a joyous bunch. They ran in close formation like a school of fish, turning and flowing as if directed by some central navigational command. I showed the other owners my corgi calendar and they savored every page. We traded corgi tales that were surprisingly familiar.

So I’m concerned that I may have gone too far. Our son is a dog and we know that. He may have been raised on goat cheese and lamb meat at a swanky Vermont farm. He may be descended from great Welsh shepherds and the pets of kings – but a dog is a dog is a dog. We have not crossed the crazy-line yet, but our affection for this little guy, has brought us within sniffing distance.

Copyright © 2007 by J. Dennis Robinson. All rights reserved.