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What Kind of Dog is That?

By Cejas, the Dog Van Ostrand


It makes me feel good when humans say I’m cute. On the street, the trails and the beach, they always ask my mom, “What kind of dog is that? He’s so cute.” She says, “We think mostly Wheaten Terrier.” One man said Tibetan Terrier. A lady on Mission Trail said my tail looked like the plume on an old-time helmet. Somebody else suggested a DNA test. Personally, I think guessing is more fun than knowing.  “How old is he?” they ask. John Steinbeck was four when he got his red pony. I am four, too.

My name, “Cejas,” is Spanish for “eyebrows.” Mom said she has not seen eyebrows like mine since Andy Rooney’s. I never saw him on 60 Minutes. I never even saw TV before I was rescued from meanies in Tijuana. Back then I was hungry and homeless. I had more problems than the Panettas have walnuts. I ate rocks for dinner and dirt for dessert. Today, I am a U.S. citizen. I eat real food, make new friends, and have learned how to play. My favorite things are nose nuzzling, butt inspections, and seagull scattering.

Though I am not big myself, I like big dogs. On the beach one morning, I strolled up to one and stared him right in the kneecap. I soon realized there was a lot more dog above. I had to back up to see all of him. His name was Great Dane. I did a high five and he did a low five. I like little dogs, too. We run in the water. We chase a ball. We dig upside-down sand castles.

What kind of dog am I? I am a happy dog. I am a good dog. I am a proud American mutt.


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