So I repeated my claim, a little more emphatically this time.

"I'm in charge. After all, a man's home is his castle!"

Yeah, well this castle is ruled by the princess, she would have said, had she said anything at all.

Frustrated, I finally blurted, "I am the master of this house!"

She just stuck her nose in the air, and turned away.

Oh, yeah ... and did I mention her nose was cold?

Sure, I wasn't talking to my wife-to-be, Natalie ... I don't have that kind of courage. No, I was talking to the Labrador retriever. I was trying to convince her that I was the master and that she was the dog, though I'm not sure the message ever got through.

You know, if a dog could sneer, then that's exactly what Casey was doing. Because she knew ... she's known it all the time. She's the master of our house. And she knows that it's just by her favor that she even allows us to live there.

It's amazing really. She's just a dog, the family pet, but she rules the homestead.

Let's see ... she sleeps on the couch, drinks from the bathroom basin, eats from the table. I'm sure she'd like to control the TV remote, too, but that's where I draw the line!

"When exactly did I lose control?" I asked out loud not long ago when Casey crawled up on the couch between Natalie and me the other night and plopped her head on my lap.

"I think it was about six years ago when you brought her home," said Natalie.

"Oh, please," I moaned, "she's just a dumb dog!"

"Dumb?" laughed Natalie. "Did you say dumb? Yeah, she's dumb like a fox."

OK, maybe dumb's the wrong word. Manipulative, even sly. But not dumb. Still, I refuse to call her smart.

I had heard that Labs were supposed to be pretty bright dogs. That's why I picked the breed. But I wouldn't really call Casey bright ... maybe selectively bright.

She knows three words—ball, walk and eat. Sometimes she knows sit, but only when I'm holding a double quarter-pounder with cheese. If I simply want her to sit to show off her obedience and display my obvious dominance over a domestic animal, she looks at me as if to say, "Hey ... I'm just a dog. I don't know what you're talking about!"

Last night I ordered her to sit, and she did ... just long enough to scratch a flea behind her ear. Then she was off to the kitchen, just in case Natalie dropped the pork roast on the floor. Hey, you never know!

She pretends she doesn't understand. But let one of the boys scream, "Casey, wanna go for a walk?" and she'll race to the front door faster than Marion Jones to the finish line.

Or let Natalie holler, "Casey, it's time to eat," and she'll be standing obediently at her bowl as though she's obeyed every command ever given.

It's funny about that food thing. She displays this instant intelligence whenever she catches a sniff of a bologna sandwich. I swear, that dog could discuss the theory of relativity if it meant getting tossed a meatball.

But try to get her off the couch so the dinner guests could sit in the family room ... not even for a Milkbone!

Luckily, even if I can't train her, I can still trick her.

"Casey," I'll say, hoping to get her attention. "Get your ball!" If calling her name doesn't work, the b-word definitely will. She'll run wildly through the house searching for that slobbery tennis ball. Once she's exhausted her search of the house, she'll head into the backyard.

And as soon as her floppy, flea-bitten tail clears the plate glass, I can simply slide the door closed. She'll come back to the door, her mouth filled with a slimy tennis ball, and give me her best sad puppy-eye look.

But I stand there proudly behind the glass, feeling so superior because I have just outsmarted a dog.

And as I drop the blinds, I bellow, "Yeah, whose castle is it now?"

Want to talk? Call me at 408.354.3110, ext. 31, or drop me a note at dsparrer@svcn.com.