Respect their intelligence and nobility. I don’t crudely state, “Olive, here’s some fresh water.” I present her with her paw printed ceramic bowl and announce with an air of royal snottiness, “Olive, here’s some french water.” In one of the weim’s few undignified behaviors, Olive laps up the water, and walks away, dripping goblets of RH2O across the length of the kitchen. What does she care? She has her loyal subject to mop up after her. However, I do speak to her throughout the day as an intellectual peer. She may consider me her inferior… until I give her a command. I speak to her as though I am channeling William The Conquerer or General Patton. Or a very irritated, premenstrual Helen Keller. “OLIVE. OFF. COUCH. NOW!” I hear my own voice and am intimidated by its volume. Christ, I sound like an anthropomorphic bullhorn. I watch Olive’s pupils shrink to the size of a pinhead a nanosecond before she takes flight and zooms away. This is in sharp contrast to the voice I use when, awakening to a brand new day, I give Queen Olive a full body massage as she lies in her crate, unwilling to emerge until this splendor-filled ritual has been sufficiently executed and completed. In a much softer voice, I tell her how beautiful she is and how much I love her. (Wow. I just realized that Olive is an anagram of “i love.”) She must think, “YEAH, NICE HOUSE I LIVE IN, BUT I’VE GOT SYBIL AS MY LANDLORD. KEEP PETTING.”