Ever notice how everybody seems to think his or her dog is a cut above average? The cutest, brightest pooch that ever walked God’s green earth?

I sure have.

Oddly enough, folks often make this dubious claim at the very moment old Spot himself is leaving his doggie calling card on yourpatch of God's green earth, suggesting rather strongly, that such blind faith in a dog’s elemental goodness is rarely justified.

Be that as it may, you won’t find me sharing this observation with Mary Jane while we’re standing around chatting and her “simply adorable” pit bull is snarling menacingly, straining at his leash, anxious to amputate my hand should I wander within range.

“Go ahead,” she gushes. “You can pet him. He’s really very friendly.”

Um, if it’s all the same to you, M.J., I’ll just take your word for it.

The truth is, I’m as guilty of selective canine blindness as anyone. Many years ago I had a huge male Akita/wolf mix. He was a magnificent animal, and in his later years, Killer (not his real name, but not wildly inappropriate either) was so docile he’d allow kittens to romp on his ears and playfully pummel his massive snout.

Only close friends and family members knew the darker truth: If there’s any validity to the claim that “all dogs go to heaven,” Killer was destined to be re-united with several he’d sent along ahead of him.

Another dog of mine, Bridget, an affable, 1-year-old Irish setter, with a brain the size of a walnut, was in pretty rough shape when she arrived at my doorstep. Although she’d been seriously neglected and underfed, she quickly responded to a simple regimen of good food, indoor lodging, exercise and attention. Her behavioral issues, on the other hand, would clearly require more work.

Not to put too fine a point on it, but Bridget’s behavior was appalling. Forget, “sit, stay, rollover.” This barely house-broken, 50-pound, canine rocket sled would charge through the front door, careen around the house like Rin Tin Tin on bath salts, leap onto the kitchen table and proceed to scarf down anything remotely edible. Everything from a loaf of wonder bread (still in it’s plastic wrapper) to the Thanksgiving turkey was up for grabs.

Never a believer in corporal punishment for man or beast, I chose to employ a gentler, rewards based regimen with an emphasis on unwavering consistency over the long term. I’m pleased to report that it worked. Well, it sort of worked.

I assure you that if you’re willing to invest all your patience and enough cash for a year’s supply of dog biscuits, even a dog with a walnut sized brain can acquire the basics of civilized house pet etiquette. Please note my use of the word “basics.”

Still tragically behind the curve in the grey matter department, Bridget nonetheless mastered all of them. She would enthusiastically sit, stay, speak and roll over on cue from sunup to sundown – or as long as the dog biscuits held out anyway.

I felt fully justified taking pride in what was, after all, an epic canine success story. Alas, as the good book says, such pride inevitably “goeth before a fall.” Unbeknownst to me, my fall was lurking right around the corner.

One warm spring morning, Bridget was snoozing on her dog bed in the living room when I heard the postman pull up to my mailbox. Just as I was preparing to step out the door, I remembered the glass pie plate filled with graham cracker crust, sitting on my kitchen table.

It had been well over a year since Bridget last pulled one of her old leaping-on-the-table stunts so, glancing at her napping innocently in the warm sunshine, I decided to risk leaving her alone, briefly, with the pie crust while I dashed out for the mail.

I wasn’t gone two minutes. Upon my return I noted with satisfaction that Bridget was still curled up asleep on her bed. She hadn’t moved an inch!

But, as I carried the mail over to table and set it down, I noticed the empty pie plate. Not a crumb of graham cracker crust remained. Shining as if it had just emerged from the rinse cycle, the glass had been licked perfectly clean.

I turned back toward Bridget, still apparently asleep with one eyebrow slightly arched, and grudgingly acknowledged that yes indeed, walnut brain notwithstanding, my very own dog had somehow managed to cleverly pull off the perfect dog crime. Clearly mydog must be a cut above average. The cutest, brightest canine on God’s green earth.

Hmm, I thought. “Good dog.”