Perhaps I need therapy but I often wonder if aliens are confused as to who are the actual leaders of our planet.
As I drudge through the snow at 6 a.m. obediently following at least 10 paces behind my master, Sunshine, our 12-year-old cocker spaniel, I can only guess the perceived analogy of an investigating Martian would surmise my submissive actions as a loyal servant. After picking up her droppings and celebrating the accomplishment with ear rubs, pats on the head and a delicious treat, I realized my place in the hierarchy.
I wash and scrub her, pay for pedicures and scratch her belly every time she flops on her back in front of me. My last appeal for a belly-scratching earned the comment, "Gross, scratch your own belly!"
Our leaders are featured in movies, commercials and are photographed more than any family member. When the time comes for an alien landing, I am relatively sure they won't be landing on the lawn of the White House but in the parking lot of the Westminster Dog Show, where they will bark their request to be taken to our leader.