Sophie only barks like a wonder dog

Iregret to report today that my dog, Sophie, about whom many have asked, doesn’t surf, skateboard, jump-rope, sing, tumble, tap-dance, curtsy or perform any of the other tricks demonstrated or promised on the new television show “Greatest American Dog.”

Sophie, as far as I can determine, is good at very little but eating and sleeping, both of which she does with near perfection. She has developed a process whereby simply inhaling she can ingest food in less than, say, 30 seconds.

I have never actually timed her, but after placing her food dish down and before I can complete a 180-degree turn, her food is gone and she is asleep on her back on the couch with her forelegs thrown outward and her back legs spread.

Perhaps this is an acceptable style of repose in certain parts of town, but not in my living room. I make her roll over and tuck herself in if she’s going to sleep on a couch within my view.

Sophie’s only helpful talent is barking. To that extent, she is an incredible watchdog, with an ability to lift her voice to a pitch not unlike a lion’s roar. Whenever anyone walks nearby or comes to the door, Sophie lets loose with a bark that rattles windows, stopping felons and terrified old ladies in their tracks.

Unfortunately, the dog’s acute sense of smell and hearing allows her to pick up the sounds and odors of strangers several blocks away, turning her into a universal watchdog. She can be dead asleep, sense the guy up the street coming home from work and suddenly leap to her feet and dash to the front door roaring wow, wow, wow, wow and causing my heart rate to escalate to that of an Olympic marathon runner.

There is no way to stop the barking short of smothering her with a pillow, and, in fact, we don’t want to discourage her from guarding our house against evildoers, so in most cases we let her bark. First-time visitors view her with a mixture of alarm and suspicion until she begins licking their leg and otherwise displaying her gentle side. Sophie, like a lot of L.A. people, is all bark and no bite.

“You know what your problem is?” Cinelli demanded when I mentioned how few performance abilities Sophie seemed to possess. I wasn’t aware I had a problem, but I should have known that Cinelli would defend her dog to the death. I just said, “I’m sorry,” hoping that would dampen whatever firestorm might follow.

“You take no time to train the dog,” she said, “or walk her or in any way spend time with her. It’s always Ernie, Ernie, Ernie!”

Ernie is our cat, who owns the house. He swaggers about like a reporter I once knew who wore a corduroy jacket with leather elbow patches and held a cigarette between his teeth instead of his lips which gave him a bizarre kind of grin. He swaggered as if he were a star reporter, but the city editor didn’t trust him and never gave him much to do, and eventually fired him.

Ernie intimidates Sophie by batting at her once in a while, sending her slinking off to cower in a corner. She whacks at me too, but I’m not easily intimidated by anyone except my wife. Cinelli doesn’t have to whack. She just flashes the Queen Victoria look that says “We are not amused” and tells me to fix my own lunch.

Ernie doesn’t actually do anything either, but when the dog dashes to the front door wow, wow, wowing, the cat follows. I suspect that if it were someone of a suspicious nature, like a Bible salesman or a Republican fundraiser, Ernie would be the one to leap into his face while Sophie stood by smiling and waiting to lick something, which is also what she does best, but not in competition.

At the urging of my wife to train her, I did teach her to sit, which lacks the level of talent required to qualify for an audition on “Greatest American Dog.” At that, I’m not even sure Sophie is officially sitting. I call her over, wave a treat in her face and say sit. She appears to, but I’ve noticed that her butt isn’t actually on the floor, which would only pass as a semi-sit in any serious canine event.

“Her main talent,” Cinelli says, “is that she’s sweet and lovable, traits which you quite obviously do not possess!”

I am tempted to reply that if there were a TV show called “America’s Most Lovable Columnist,” I would be rolling over, smiling and licking everything within reach of my tongue. When it comes to winning, I learn quickly. Holler “Column!” and see me go. Wow, wow, wow, wow. . . .

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almtz13@latimes.com