Brains are overrated. “Look at Nelson Cerebellum,” Mother said. “A genius! The eighth wonder of the world according to your teachers. And look where he is now!"

”Retired. He sold his business to Google for 125 million,” I reminded her about the good fortune of my old classmate, poster child of the nerd class.

“Well, the guy who sold Waze got a billion," Mother barked. "Some genius, that Nelson.”

People say the dumbest stuff all the time. It’s an onslaught that bombards us like sandstorms in the Sahara. There's no escaping it, no fighting it. Curl up in your protective armor until it’s over and then treat yourself to a frosty beverage.

Face it, embrace it: aside from a few outliers, humans are dumb. That’s why dogs are our best friends. They know how to manipulate us. Consider their founder, Barkimedes, the first dog to grace planet Earth. As it is written in the Canis Domesticus Scriptures, Barkimedes was the unlikely patriarch of what is arguably Earth's most popular species, the pooch.

The legend goes that Barkimedes was a chubby, unathletic wolf cub with thick glasses and an overbite. Not exactly built to hunt with the pack, to put it mildly. And lazy to boot—he’d eat anything within paw range. So when he stumbled upon a Fourth of July barbecue held by the Clan of the Meat Heads, it was as if he heard a howl from the heavens above.

"Look—baby wolf," Og grunted, President Emeritus of the Clan of the Meat Heads, when he spotted Barkimedes nestled under a bush near the campfire.

Og tossed him a scrap of seared mammoth steak; the porky furball gobbled it up. “This crushes raw musk ox meat!” Barkimedes thought. “Where do I sign up?”

According to The Wolf Tales, this moment became known as The Big Sell Out, where Barkimedes exchanged his lupine birthright for a few scraps of fat and gristle. He never left. But no matter which version of the story you believe, so began the species of freeloading Canis Domesticus, the only domesticated animal that we feed instead of eat. Imagine how cows and chickens feel about that.

Still, Barkimedes wasn’t just a lucky opportunist. The Scriptures hint at his cleverness. He didn’t merely eat the steak and scamper off; he charmed the Meat Heads. Maybe he did a funny little dance by the fire, or perhaps he barked at just the right time to warn of an approaching cave-to-cave traveling merchant. Whatever he did, it worked.

“This one’s clever,” Og declared. “We keep.”

The Meat Heads grew fond of their odd little companion. Barkimedes would lounge around the fire, wagging his tail, eating scraps, and playfully nipping at the kids. Over time, his charm became his species’ legacy. Every dog, from the pampered Maltese to the scrappy street mutt, owes a debt to Barkimedes and his brilliant freeloading diplomacy.

Meanwhile, as the narrator of this story, I’m struck by the absurdity of it all. Look at us: billions of people willingly feeding these descendants of Barkimedes, all while pretending we’re the dominant species. And my mother says Nelson Cerebellum is overrated.

DJ joined Mother and me as we were about to chow down on some barbecued burgers with all the garnishes. He stood upright on his hind legs, begging to partake in our copious meal.

"Smart dog, I gotta say. Shows up always at the most opportune time!" I said while cutting him a piece of my mega burger that was big enough to feed a small village.

DJ wagged his tail furiously, standing upright in an Oscar-worthy performance of polite desperation.

"Hmph," Mother huffed, eyeing DJ with a mix of disdain and grudging admiration. "If he was so smart, he would’ve passed obedience school."

But that’s the thing about my dog: he’s smart enough to skip obedience school entirely. Why bother? It wouldn’t change a thing: he’d still get fed, sheltered, and loved, regardless. And if I have to deal with a little defiance and obstinance along the way? Well, that’s on me. I’m only human, after all. Not too bright.