I’m pretty sure my grandmother loved me when she was alive, but I’m positive she loved my dog J.J. more.

J.J.’s picture was on the mantle, mine was not. Maybe that’s because J.J. was a stunning replica of Lassie, the world famous collie from the 50s television classic, and I was just a pint–sized, freckle–faced, poor–man’s Ricky Schroeder. Obviously, J.J.’s picture went better with the drapes.

But that wasn’t my only clue. When my mom, J.J., and I would go to my grandmother’s for Sunday dinner, my grandmother would always give me a polite “hello” then immediately reach into her pantry and pull out a big box of dog biscuits. When I asked for my treat she’d grunt, point to the cookie jar with a stale half–eaten oatmeal cookie, and return to J.J.

I would have been better off stealing a biscuit from J.J.

I’m not bitter. I loved my dog, too, and I’m glad he filled that void in my grandmother’s life that I could not. I just wish the cookie jar would have been full of Oreos once in a while.

The problem is that history is repeating itself. There’s a theory that daughters eventually turn into their mothers, and I’m finding that’s at least partly true. My mother, my grandmother’s daughter, is exhibiting many of the same trends that make me sad every time I sniff an oatmeal cookie. The big exception is that my children, my mother’s grandchildren, aren’t the victims this time. It’s me again!

My mother dotes over and spoils my three children as much as any grandmother. That’s not the problem. It’s the way she treats her dogs. Let’s put it this way, if I come back in another life, I’d like to come back as one of her dogs, not her kid.

For starters, her dogs get groomed. I got a real “bowl cut” – complete with a bowl on the head and a pair of dull scissors from an old sewing kit. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I never made my grandmother’s mantle piece, because I looked like I cut my hair myself.

My mother actually hand feeds her smallest dog. She sits on the floor twice a day feeding her little baby with a fork. If it weren’t for fast food, I’m pretty sure I would have starved. The closest I got to a hand feeding was the McDonald’s bag she handed to me in the back seat as we left the drive–thru.

My mother’s dogs stay in the house if it’s raining, cold, or even a little breezy. She runs home from work to check on them at least once a day. She hires babysitters when she goes on overnight trips and never stays gone for more than a night – at least not without some serious anxiety. When I was a kid, for all my mom knew, I could have been crab fishing in the Bering Sea for most of the day.

My elders have certainly taught me humility if nothing else. Playing second fiddle to my four–legged brethren is a way of life for me, but the positive side is that I’ve grown up very independent. I was doing laundry and washing dishes before my fifth birthday. I bet my mom’s dogs don’t know a spin cycle from a heat dry, but then again, they don’t have to.