No doubt about it, I am a dog lover.

My wife and I have a couple of dogs at home. They sleep on our bed. They lounge on our couches. They look at me menacingly if they are reduced to reclining merely on our shag carpet and threaten to call the Humane Society.

I pet them. I nuzzle them. I coo to them. I do everything short of a Madonna-Spears greeting.

But do you know what? Their next time standing in front of a blow dryer will be their first. The next time I put on a suit coat, tie and dress slacks and go prancing around the neighborhood with them will also be the first.

That is what I don’t get about these dog shows like the Westminster Kennel Club soiree. There’s more hair spray, brushes, and blow dryers at Westminster than at your typical Miss America pageant.

I love dogs, but they are still dogs. They run in the woods. They dig in the dirt. They chase squirrels, tennis balls and birds.

It was Malachy the Pekingese with the face that looks like it took a straight right from Mayweather who was named best in show at the dog show.

Malachy looks like 11 pounds of pure, unadulterated pampered prissy pooch.

Give me a real dog. Give me a big dog. Give me a dog that does not look like it has spent the last three hours in a beauty salon. Give me a dog that could rip apart a burglar, not a purse.

I just don’t get dog shows.