A story in the news yesterday made me realize just how smart dogs can be -- some dogs anyway.

Two-year-old Toby, a golden retriever, saved his mistress' life when he noticed her choking and dragged her to the ground, jumping on her chest until she coughed up the piece of apple she was choking on. The dog ate the apple when it was all said and done.

I have a golden retriever. He doesn't like apples and the only time I can remember him dragging me to the ground is when I'm trying to walk him.

He is smart enough to wait to jump up on the couch until Brad leaves and I take my morning shower. He isn't smart enough to jump down before I get out of the bathroom. He's smart enough to know when it's time to eat and he even insists upon having his water changed at least three times a day.

One of my other dogs, Chewey, weighs enough that he could probably dislodge an apple, if he actually liked me enough to do it. But most of the time he doesn't like me. Most of the time he's blaming me for everything bad that's happened to him.

When my son gives him a bath -- it's my fault. There he'll be, soaking wet, laying in the middle of the living room, and giving me the evil eye. I'm not the one that comes up with the brilliant idea of throwing him in the bathtub and washing out his doggie smell -- it's all Jeremy, and yet somehow I'm the one ending up being punished.

Whether a bath, a brushing, or a set of clippers causes his indignity, he blames me as though I am forcing Jeremy to do these things to him through some kind of evil mind control.

I'll try calling him to me -- he turns his head as though I'm not even there. I call him again -- he runs and jumps into Jeremy's lap and proceeds to ignore me for the next three days -- except at feeding time, of course.

If he were capable, I think he'd be the one shoving the apple down my throat and making sure it was lodged there.

Gizmo would probably help me, if she weighed more than six pounds and was in the right mood. But I'd only have a window of about one hour a day to find her in the right mood.

Any other time she'd simply raise her little princess head from her perch on her pillow throne and give me her one-eyed glare for waking her from her royal nap. Then she'd lay her head back down, go back to sleep and let me choke to death.

Don't get me wrong, I love my dogs, they are a very large part of our family. But one thing I know for certain, the next dog I get is going to be big enough to dislodge a T-bone and learn how to dial 9-1-1. And most importantly he's going to have to like me enough to follow through, if the need ever arises.