I always thought they were spoiled. They get to stay inside all day, out of the heat -- or cold, depending on the season. They have the run of the house, the yard, and when the opportunity arises and the mood strikes them, the neighborhood.

Gizmo, our Pekingese, has a special pillow in the living room where she sleeps every night and Max has a set of twin "babies" (a pair of slippers I bought for myself) he mothers whenever he comes across one of them. Chewey, our eldest, believes every piece of furniture in the house was built and placed specifically for his comfort.

On occasion, the three of them get a special treat when they get to go for a ride. That little treat is happening less and less often since none of them seem to be able to make the jump into any of our vehicles. It's tough lifting an 80-pound golden retriever into a four-wheel-drive pickup.

But, with that said, after talking to my mom and dad and brother and sister-in-law Monday night, I've decided our dogs aren't actually spoiled, they're just loved.

We were sitting around after eating Jeremy's birthday celebration dinner, when we started talking about our dogs.

For several years, Brad and I were empty-nesters, like the four of them. Our dogs became our "children."

We talked a little about our three mutts, which started a conversation on the perks enjoyed by the dogs of my parents and Russell and Dorris.

My mom and dad regaled the story of how their dog, Frisky, pouts every time my dad leaves the house. She also demands a treat from my uncle every time he walks in the door, sitting on her haunches, whining and "talking" to him until he finally digs in his pocket for her treat -- unless, of course, she's pouting because my dad is gone.

Then my brother started talking about his little pooch, Taco. Talk about spoiled!

Taco goes everywhere but work with Russell.

They camp together, they kayak together, they fish together and on occasion they even go out for ice cream.

Because of Russ's passion for kayaking, and his attachment to Taco, Russ has bought a life jacket for his little friend.

That's okay. Taco has fallen off the front of the kayak in the past and, let's face it, a kid can't dog paddle forever.

But Taco also has another handy accessory. Russ bought him a little backpack -- a little something in which he can carry his treats around. I just have to wonder how he gets them out and eats them.

Something like that would drive my dogs nuts. First they'd try to get the bones out of the other dog's pack. The three of them would be running around in a merry-go-round style circle for hours on end. If one of them didn't eventually drop dead of a heart attack, they'd try to get the bones out of their own pack. They'd have permanent curvature of the spine and look pretty silly walking in circles everywhere they went.

I think I'll keep their bones in the drawer in the kitchen, a backpack would just be too cruel.

Speaking of cruel, I can't pass up this opportunity to wish my sister-in-law, Dorris, a happy 35th (50th) birthday this coming Monday. I hope it's a great one.