Why is there no room at Westminster for the smartest dog my wife and I’ve ever met?

Lots of categories, right? Guard dog, seeing eye dog, police dog, bomb sniffing dog, drug detection dog, cadaver dog, best-in-show dog, agility dog, flyball dog, water jumping dog, and therapy dogs of all descriptions, who fix PTSD sufferers and make both the very young and the very old in hospitals very very happy.

Time for a new category. Control dog. Raebert has his own specialized mission. His purpose in life is to make sure that we spend 100 percent of our time with him, preferably with his 110 pound carcass sprawled across both of us on our, meaning his, couch. Beyond that, he insists, every single night, that we go to bed at the right time, which happens to be HIS bedtime. Also, he hates the buzzing of flies and leaves the room when that happens or anything like it, including any sort of buzzing sound, like, well, women talking on TV.

Control. I mean, is there any chance that he could get a mustardy Captain Kirk command jersey colored collar and get a shout-out in the center ring at Westminster? Don’t answer that.

No Westminster honors? Kiss my giant rear end.