They say those who rise to to fame and fortune take their exalted status more seriously than those who were born into it.
Take me, for example. Five years ago I was a mixed breed Chihuahua ranging the streets of Austin. With heartworms. Since my rescue I've become a pampered princess, one who just participated in a doggie coronation in a velvet gown trimmed in ermine. (OK, the ermine was fake but you get the picture.)
Do I feel the grandeur more than a dog who came into the world with a pedigree? Well I haven’t asked my famous cousin, Sadie, how she felt after winning best-in-show at Madison Square Garden this year. My guess is, she took it pretty much for granted. Even when she met Donald Trump.
Me? I savor every little perk or notice that comes my way. But I also feel a growing sense of hauteur, now that I’ve entered the world of privilege. I’m trying not to snoot the hoi polloi of dogdom, but it’s hard not to feel superior when you’ve been given a title--even if it’s a silly one like Duchess of the Indestructible Chew Toy.
I have to be mindful, however, not to reveal my background by exhibiting a “let them eat dog biscuits” attitude. The last thing I want to have said about me is something that Sadie’s mistress (my mistress’s cousin) once said about a gauche arriviste: “He’s a pig in the parlor.”
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