DIANE MAKAR MURPHY I don't want my pet living a dog's life anymore

I read about a woman who feeds her bichon fris & eacute; shredded carrots, brown rice and one grape for breakfast. I read about another who has a bedroom with a human bed for her dog. Yet another regularly takes her pooch to the puppy masseuse.
These women are crazy, right?
Well ... now, I have my own dog. I provide Zeke with fresh Brita-filtered water. I pour it into his dishwasher-clean bowl like a stream of pure mountain runoff and darn, I feel good! If the pitcher is empty and I'm in a hurry, I grudgingly put the bowl under the tap and feel horribly guilty about it. Tap water. Will he notice? Will he mind?
I also have second thoughts about using Zeke like a vacuum cleaner if a piece of food hits the kitchen floor. My inner voice scolds, "That's so demeaning."
But recently, I got the slap in the face I deserved. My husband and I took the dog to the fairground after a good rain, and Zeke lapped up water from every dark brown mud hole he could race to. OK, I thought, it's clear I'm crazy, too. I'm worried about the quality of my dog's H2O, and he would drink a bucket of sewage.
Where has my memory been? This Brita-pampered pet has literally eaten goose poop.
He doesn't care
The truth is (whatever claptrap my inner voice is spewing), Zeke would happily eat a dog biscuit retrieved from a septic tank. He has stuck his nose into more hideous places than a plunger has been. He has no boundaries when it comes to food or near-food. And I doubt highly that even MY kitchen floor is much of a turn-off to him.
I've gotten into near-fistfights with Zeke trying to keep him from swallowing some unidentified piece of garbage he found along a walk.
A standoff
Once we got into a Mexican standoff. The pup scarfed up a chicken bone, and I locked my hands around his neck to keep him from swallowing. I remembered the intestinal contortions a childhood dog had when she had gulped down a chicken bone, so I was serious. But Zeke was, too. He wouldn't give up that bone. I wouldn't let go of his throat. We would be there still if I didn't outweigh him. He growled. I growled. I won. He probably would have survived either way.
In fact, that's the whole thing: survival. We got Zeke at the dog pound, where he was a bone-thin 15 pounds at six months of age. (The vet stunned us with the revelation he would weigh 50 pounds in short order as he grew up.) He had basically lived on his own for his entire life, scrounging what he could from wherever.
And he had not necessarily been in the nicest places. He came to us not only emaciated, but with his matted hair lice-covered as well (another surprise the vet laid on us).
Hunting instinct
In the early days, Zeke's walks were habitual hunts for food. You couldn't get a block before he found something he considered edible, gulped it down, and kept on hunting. A candy wrapper, a discarded bite of McDonald's burger, a plastic foam meat tray, goose poop (I thought I'd mention it again because he's eaten it more than once).
Although Zeke's tastes have improved immensely, he's still a stray at heart. And muddy water is water, after all.
It's just me
So, I guess it's clear: I pour pure filtered water that reminds me of the ice cold mountain lakes of Arizona because that's what I want, not because it's what Zeke wants. Zeke couldn't care less -- he has more important things on his mind, like chasing down the mail carrier from window to window.
So, am I crazy? Undoubtedly.
So, will I stop? Heck, no. That inner voice also serenades me with this little ditty: "Aren't you a good master! Good girl, good girl!"
Dogs aren't the only ones who need to feel good.
murphy@vindy.com