He didn’t bark. He just gave the vacuum a look of such profound, icy judgment that Greg Miller actually felt embarrassed and turned it off.
The neighborhood knew Barnaby as a Golden Retriever, but Barnaby knew better.
Barnaby wasn’t trying to be a cat. He just found their philosophy more efficient. Why fetch a ball when you can simply wait for the human to realize the ball is boring? Why sleep on the floor when there is a perfectly good, elevated bookshelf?
He was a dog by birth, sure. But in the quiet house, watching the world from the top of the couch, Barnaby knew the truth: he was an artist of the feline persuasion, trapped in the body of man’s best friend. And as long as the kibble was served on time, he was perfectly fine with the disguise.
The title "More Than a Feline" suggests a classic case of an identity crisis—or perhaps a dog who is far more observant than his humans realize.
