While being your sister’s white, fluffy plaything these past eight years (seemed like fifty-six years to me), I have enjoyed a privileged life – the top dog so to speak. My faithfulness as ‘woman’s best friend’ has been amply rewarded – twelve million times (feels more like eighty-four million to me). Even with all the money, I still have unfilled needs and desires and, consequently, am delineating these demands.

Starting immediately, I just want to be a dog, That’s d-o-g, Dogg! So that we fully understand each other and don’t have the tail wagging the dog, I am setting forth some specific instructions. I suggest you read them carefully and be a good boy. Obey!

Chow: Leona always ordered meals for me – venison, buffalo, lamb, foie gras, you know, the usual dishes from such restaurants as Per Se, Le Cirque, Daniel, La Cote Basque – you get the scent. From now on, I want dog food – good, old-fashioned, American-made dog food. Google Alpo and order a case of every flavor. The Lhasa Apso in a neighboring penthouse says Alpo’s Chop House Originals are something to really sink your canine teeth into. Occasionally tearing into the garbage can would be nice.

Travel: No more five-star hotels at resort locations. All those people in uniforms make my hair crawl. A dream I’ve always had (even if only in black and white) is to attend a University of Georgia football game and chill with Uga. Sitting in the Dawg Pound at a Cleveland Browns game would be heavenly, too. Please don’t fly me to these venues on our private jet or carry me around in a purse. I want to ride in a car and stick my head out of the window the entire way. I want to stay in a pet hotel and try doggy day care. Come with me. As they say, it might teach you a few new tricks.

Hired Help: Fire the dog walker, the dog exercise trainer, the dog whisperer, and the dog psychiatrist. I’m sorry if that puts them out of work. Hey, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. It will save a bowlful of money and give me more free time to pursue what I really prefer – playing the same game over and over and over. Please purchase a ball, a stick, and a chew toy – that will do me just fine, thank you very much. Less is more. Take me to Central Park, let me run and roll in the grass. This may sound foreign to you blue bloods, but running wild is sheer delight – even more fun than sniffing people and having them giggle and push you away.

Clothing: No clothes. Read my growl. N-O clothes! No houndstooth sweaters, jeweled collars nor fuzzy pajamas. No doggy swim trunks, sunglasses nor galoshes. None of that Burberry canine couture crap. Most of all, do not – I repeat, do not – dress me in some stupid costume for Halloween, Christmas or any other holiday. That dog won’t hunt!

Medical care: I am neither sick nor senile if I walk into a room, look around a while, and then walk out. I realize this may be a warning sign of problems in humans, but it is de rigueur for dogs. Same for turning around three time before lying down or having a cold, wet nose. So, don’t drop big bucks on a doggy Mayo Clinic. If I’m sick, I’ll let you know – probably on an expensive, Persian carpet.

I expect you to stay on a short leash in executing these instructions. Failure to do so will cause me to sic my legal counsel on you. They play ruff. Furthermore, following my wishes will save much of the twelve million bucks. Consequently, I want you to run and fetch the excess then donate it to the SPCA. Every dog should have its day. One more thing: the commode in the front hall powder room is my water bowl. If I ever catch you peeing in it again, I’ll be on your ankle like a bulldog on barbeque!