Call me Rusty.

I’m a miniature poodle (we come in three handy sizes), but not the “Fifi” kind, please. I am now an established member of Mom’s household, such as it is, with no other animals in sight, and nothing much going on most of the time. Not very exciting, but I get three squares a day (actually, more like one square all day long) and something called “treats.”

I couldn’t figure out what treats were in the beginning, since I never had any before. Now I’m growing to understand that they are meant to manipulate my behavior, and make me do things I never had any intention of doing in the first place. Thus, I consider it obligatory to outwit them. I purposely accept them graciously, but then I leave them all over the floor as a sign that I am my own dog, and cannot be conned into doing anything I do not choose to do. I have read the United States Constitution (I had a lot of time to myself in my last home) and I know my rights.

I do love Mom, but she doesn’t seem to understand where I’m coming from. For instance, last week I heard her on the phone making arrangements to have me fixed. Now I don’t understand that at all, because there is nothing about me that needs fixing in the first place, and I trust she will understand that as we get to know each other better.

Not that I don’t have things to learn. I hope I wouldn’t be so snooty as to think that I know all there is to know about my calling. I am only 2 years old, after all, and I’m still a work in progress. I am still perfecting being a dog.

For instance, the first few days I lived with Mom, I completely betrayed my lifework by accepting certain limitations on my right to explore the world. I stood by, for instance, when she left her breakfast toast unguarded on the table to answer a phone call. Well, I’ll tell the world, that didn’t last long. It only took that one lapse for me to understand that I had to seize my chances, and, believe me, I got two excellent breakfasts before she caught on. (She’s a bit of a slow learner, but lovable.)

And it has helped tremendously that she has had big dogs all her life and is not used to someone like me, which if I do say so myself, is 16 pounds of unleashed energy, and smart as a whip. Whatever a whip is. She has explained to me herself (several times) that she is simply not used to dogs skipping along on top of bookcases and the dining room table, but I try to tell her that there are times when I really have to indulge my inner gazelle. She also disapproves of the aquatic sports I enjoy in my water bowl, but I can’t let that stop me from getting my exercise. She doesn’t seem to realize that cleaning up the room afterward gives her some much needed exercise of her own, but, no doubt, we can arrive at an understanding in time.

And she seemed particularly heated about waking up one morning with my face on the pillow beside her. Still, I accept the fact that, in perfecting myself, I must also train Mom in her own duties as my owner, and that looks like a big job, indeed.

Also, she has this obsession about one thing in particular — she insists that I cannot do the very thing I do best — at least, not in the house! You would think that people would appreciate an art form in the living room, but no, she gets upset and can’t wait to put me outside. Of course, that means I get taken for walks (although she has to depend on other wonderful and helpful people to do that) so I guess it’s not all bad.

Also, I must say, I have gotten extraordinary results from personally saluting all the vertical and upright landscapes in the house, like chair legs and tall plants. And I really got her attention last week when I “disappeared” a whole box of saltines, cardboard and all, out of the lazy susan, which, by the way, is gr-r-r-reat fun to open by myself . (It only takes a push). She hasn’t found it yet!

The only thing I would change about my Mom is that she seems to think that she has a life outside this one with me in her house. But we are working on that. A few drastic measures, like throwing up on the new rug, while she’s away, or licking myself on the bed (as I do so well), will probably work wonders in persuading her that she should stay at home at all times and pay attention to no one else in the world but Me.

Life is like a milk bone, over way too fast.

But Mom is doing her best to make it worthwhile for me — I have to give her that.

Good Mom!

Maude McDaniel is a Cumberland freelance writer. Her column appears in the Times-News on alternate Sundays.