Peaches, a four-year-old spaniel, lounges lazily under the front porch as she watches the basset hound from across the street. “He’s such a stud,” she says. If I only had thumbs. . .”

“And what would you do if you had thumbs?” asks Mimi, the only French Poodle on the block, as she bites at a tick digging into her left paw.

“First of all, I’d boot up my master’s computer and go to Pollstar.com and sniff the latest tours. Like Dog Fashion Disco. Or Ratdog.”

“Three Dog Night?”

“Sure,” replies Peaches as she scratches her left ear. “Then I’d pick out one of them big shows, like Madonna, or U2.”

“Then what would you do?”

“I’d grab a leash and go over to that basset across the street.”

“Bingo? That hot dog?”

“Yeah. Did you know he’s the only intact male on the block?”

“Ooooh,” sighs Mimi as she wags her tail in wicked delight. “Tell me more.”

“I’d slip that choke collar around his neck.”

“Sounds kinky. I like it.”

“Then I’d look into those deep, dark basset eyes, and I’d say. . .”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Listen up, pooch. I’m your ticket to doggy ecstasy. I’m going to take you to The Donnas, Trisha Yearwood and Travis. Together we’ll see Wilco and Tori Amos. I’ll make your tail wag and your fur stand on end. I’ll make you howl like a banshee at the full moon. I make no jest. You’ll be stylin’ with the best!”

“Sister!”

Peaches stands and stretches her body. “I’d do all that and more except. . . “

“You don’t have thumbs.”

“No, I don’t. Sigh.”

“So, what are you going to do instead?”

“I guess I’ll just have to go over there and stick my tail in his muzzle.”

“Same old, same old, eh?”

“Yeah.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I’ll bite him.”