May the force be with you

The grandmotherly type at the Petco Unleashed register in Wellesley looked down her nose at Mom, who as usual was struggling with me.

Caught in a particularly crazed moment.

"That's nothing," said the lady, waving her hand at my bulk as if she were shooing away a mosquito. "My daughter has a Great Dane who's 150—no, 160, pounds."

Mom, not aware that she had entered herself in the "Who Has the Biggest Dog" competition, did not respond, especially because she was trying to remove my front three-quarters from the countertop, where I had launched myself to try out the free treats.

(The last time I did this, I succeeded in knocking all of the treats to the ground, my typical M.O.)

Finally, after wrestling me down from the counter (at which was successful only because the treats proffered were undesirable to me) she said: "It's not the poundage, it's the force of will."

Unimpressed, the woman ignored this.

Now, I don't pretend to be the biggest dog on the block (honors there go to a French mastiff, or Dogue de Bourdeaux) nor do I need to compete with anyone—anyone, that is, except Mom.

Lately, she's taken to theatrics to get me to behave, such as using a deep voice to order me into the car after a walk. That is, when no strangers are around for me to impress with my sudden obedience.

It's really fun making Mom look foolish. Sometimes I feel a bit sorry, or a teeny bit embarrassed for her. But then, I get over it. Because winning, indeed, is the only thing.