Dog Lickers

My mom is a dog-licker. That’s someone who thinks highly enough of her pet to accept French kisses (and we do know where those dog lips have been).

Max, Mom’s dog, is a black poodle. Full name: Emperor Maximus. No, really -- it’s engraved on the doggy bling that Mom creates herself from Swarovski crystal.

Max receives full emperor treatment, too. In the hallway you’ll find portraits of him front and center in the space normally reserved for, well, sons.

It’s not that my mom worships her dog. Well, yes. It is. It’s exactly like that. But lots of people get weird about their pets. One time I was buying a Craigslist toy from a woman who asked if I’d like to see her goldfish. She returned with a laminated carcass.

“Um,” I said. “Um.”

“The salt preserves him indefinitely,” she said.

So yes, when it comes to pet obsession, Mom is off the hook. Ha! Hook. Sigh.

Max weighs five pounds -- half a bowling ball -- but barks like he’s been dipped in the river Styx. He chases passers-by with the illusion that somehow, someway, he’ll render them extinct.

Compare to cats, who have no protective instincts at all. You could fall down the stairs and lie unconscious in a heap, and the cat will be playing with your shoestring. So it goes.

Not to “out” him or anything, but Max does pee in a litter box.

“Does his wil’ piddle,” says Mom.

The pee smells funny because she buys him flavored vitamin water. For an animal that was only moments ago gnawing at his bahookie.

In the living room you’ll find a ball that, when you touch it, plays a recording of Mom’s voice: “I love you, Max. I’ll be home soooon.”

When you suggest that she’s overdoing it, my mom does both voices.

MAX: I just wants to pway wis my mommy.

MOM: Then go get it. Get your ball!

ROD SERLING: And if you get quiet -- listen not with your ears but with your heart -- you too might hear that little creature say, “I am god spelled backwards.”

I don’t mind that Max prefers Skippy to Jif; it’s just that my mom knows about it.

When Mom leaves for work, Max runs to his kennel cab to sulk. Mom pitched to her coworkers a take-your-dog-to-work day, but they’re not biting. Ha! Biting. Sigh.

When last we spoke, Mom and Max -- the twins -- were at the dentist, and can’t you just hear that conversation … “For the last time, Mrs. Baker, no. We are NOT recommending braces for your dog.”

Max has an Imelda-Marcos-size toy collection, 52 animals in all. Last week he had sexual relations with the lobster (and you wonder how we get things like crabs). If you catch him in the right mood, Max will have relations with your leg. And that’s another difference between cats and dogs: A cat may love you, but dogs go all the way.

My mom is not alone in her obsession. Have you seen the dog-treat section at Petco? Sirloin kabobs, duck jerky, organic crispy cheese cakes. Not that Max would eat food that comes from a “pet store.” He’s ready for a setting at the dinner table.

“Who made you rice wich your chickeeen? Max! Don’t eat the garnish!”

Mom and my step-dad Mark watch The National Dog Show, which is when a starchy woman, perhaps the queen of England, walks around pointing out flaws (the way TMZ does).

Max himself couldn’t handle a contest because he’s prejudiced against dogs. Once he learns to stand upright, he’s getting a wax and having the surgery.

At Christmas, Mom fit the dog with antlers and took him for pictures with Santa. She’s submitting the pictures to Parade and fully expects to see prize money.

Here comes the scary part: Mom and Mark may be getting another puppy. Breeders beware. These are the nicest people in the world, but they’ll spoil your dog beyond recognition. They will decorate him and take him on road trips and teach him to speak in childish tones.

“Who’s the bestest, most bootiful boy in da wooorld?”

I hope my mom sees the humor in all this because one, I love her, and two, I’m going over for dinner tonight. We’re having Snausages.

Owed to a Friend

I want you to meet my friend Dylan, a full-color cartoon living in a black-and-white world. You’d think that society couldn’t handle a guy like that, but it turns out that society has no choice. There’s no law against laughing too loud or singing in lobbies or changing your clothes on the street. Wait -- there may be a law against that last one.

And while some people cannot, in fact, handle the man, the rest of us are attracted like moths to his light.

Last week I pulled up beside Dylan at a stoplight. Instead of waving as you might, Dylan opened his door and ran over to say hi.

“Hey, stranger!” he said, banging my car. “You don’t write, you don’t call…”

Dylan’s Labrador, Leopold, who considered himself Dylan’s brother, got out of the car and also ran over. The driver behind gave us the stink eye, and Dylan, sensing the the pressure, said goodbye and demanded that I call or else he’d order an air strike.

The light turned green while Dylan chased his dog around the car, a couple of Keystone Cops. Drivers honked and grumbled and otherwise played their parts. Dylan finally muscled Leopold into the car, smiling like a man who can appreciate an unplanned dog chase.

He owns six cars, but Dylan chose to drive a rusty Cadillac ragtop that belonged on Sanford and Son. Dylan said it’s a classic, but I, a layperson, called it a piece of duker. The top didn’t close, passenger door stuck, and oh yeah, there was a giant happy face on the hood. This is the car that Dylan insisted we drive to the beach.

Halfway through the canyon, the engine started to lose important-sounding parts. To address the situation, Dylan turned up the radio. Smoke began to trickle through the vents.

“No problem,” he yelled. “We’ll run the heater to cool off the engine.”

Flames now.

“Okay,” said Dylan … pausing for comedic effect … “We may have to stop.”

Dylan lifted the hood to release a column of smoke. Native Americans could read it from miles: “Oh, white man screwed.” Dylan took off his shirt and whacked at the flames, jester to the gods. Then he looked at me and shrugged.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” he said in a Mexican accent. It was Mexican today. The day before, he did British. “Today, amigo, we surf!”

Dylan turned to solicit a ride from passers-by, not by sticking his thumb out but by standing in the road. Moments later, we bounced up and down on a pickup en route to the beach, our Cadillac smoldering yonder. Dylan called a tow truck and asked them to give it a proper burial. They were happy to do it, and would that be Visa or MasterCard.

These things happen every time I see the guy. You might find Dylan playing basketball with the guys at the car wash. You’ll catch him parked the wrong way on a residential street, chatting with the meter maid. When he leaves a voicemail, it’s always in song. Last time, Jim Croce:

“Operator, would you help me place this call … you see my friend has become just a little bit flaky…”

I’m not saying the guy is superhuman; I am just suggesting that we can, by one man’s example, break free from the stares and become who we really are. Or Dylan will order an air strike.