“Down, Tiny, down!” my cousin Ralph snapped at his beloved pet. The dog had its front legs on my shoulders and was licking the top of my head.

I like dogs. I like to pet them behind their ears; I like to talk coochy-coo baby talk to them; I like to see them curled up on the back porch; I like their warmth, friendliness and loyalty. What I don’t like is to sumo wrestle with them. I do not like to tongue-kiss them. I do not like to have them paw my private areas like a rogue TSA agent.

ˇ”Please, Tiny, at least use the backs of your paws when you pat me down like that. And don’t use your mouth, either.”

The white shirt I was wearing now had two dirty paw prints on the shoulder, and it smelled of wet dog and something much less pleasant. I later learned that when I’m not around, Tiny likes to hunt for dead things in the woods and drag them home. And he kissed me with that mouth?

“It’s funny,” Ralph said. “He never does that. You must smell like a rotting squirrel or something.” Yeah, that’s the name of my cologne, Dead Squirrel. It’s French.