What if dogs could take pictures of their owners?

What if my dog had opposable thumbs, understood technology, had his own phone and could, and wanted to, take pictures of me?

Yes, I know that’s a lot of “ifs,” but, given how often I take pictures of him in different lighting, rolling on his back in the grass, lifting his ears when I call for him and wagging excitedly to go in the car, I can’t help imagining the kinds of pictures he might take of me.

shallow breathing and my pursed lips. He might also suggest they observe the way I pull my head back as far as my short arms allow from his poop while I try to get as much of it as possible into a bag.

— The frenetic play face. Sometimes, my excitement gets the best of me. My dog might show his friends how I purse my lips, raise my eyebrows and pull my cheeks back in an expression that looks like excitement bordering on mania. We were once sitting with another family in an already awkward social situation. When their dog came out, I instinctively made that face, causing the conversation to stop and adding to my list of awkward moments, courtesy of dad.

struggle to distinguish between their toys and, say, a Derek Jeter signed baseball that either was too close to the edge of a desk or that fell on the floor. He might take out a picture that shows me pointing, stomping my feet, and shouting words that often include “no” or “don’t do that” or “bad doggy.”

— The don’t hump my leg face. The arrival of company sometimes gets the whole house excited. My dog might show his friends how his owners shake their heads, roll their eyes, frown, point and shout some combinations of the words “no” and “down” and “he doesn’t normally do this.” stay down for long.

— The my-human-needs-a-friend face. Dogs can sense, either from the sounds we make or our body posture, when we are feeling down. My dog reacts to my tone. He jumps up, wags and throws his head into my knees when he hears me telling a story filled with conflict or when I raise my voice after hanging up after a frustrating call. In a picture, he might show me sitting at my desk, shoulders slumped, with my head down and my eyes nearly closed. In that picture, he might brag to his fellow dogs about his value as a companion.

BY DANIEL DUNAIEF

— Picking up poop. This one would probably be one of his favorites. Having an OCD owner, he might enjoy opening his phone and showing his pet pals how I turn my head as I reach for his solid waste. He might ask them to notice my

— The tug-of-war face. From his vantage point, I’m sure he sees me gritting my teeth as if I’m tugging with my mouth. He might point out to his pet pals, if he had a photo, that I bend my knees and make a low, growling noise to match his sounds.

— The bad doggy face. Sometimes, dogs

— The down on all fours moment. I can imagine dogs chatting about how adorable — or maybe ridiculous — it is when their owners get down on their hands and knees to play. They might show their friends how we smile and tilt our heads as they approach. Then, of course, they might laugh as they observe how slowly we move in this position. They can cross the backyard on all fours in seconds, while we don’t were still in their cradles. Described on the internet as being a “pillar of British sporting and social culture,” it is a snooty place. am forgetting half the delicacies. And then there were the desserts lined up on a groaning dining room table. As you can imagine, all of this was washed down nicely with red and white wines and glasses of champagne. Charles would have been impressed.

— The my-human’s-team-just-won face: Pets probably find sports somewhere between amusing and unnerving. Humans shout at the TV, jump up and down, and scream “no” and “yes” in rapid succession. When it’s all over, if our team wins, we might reach down and pet them with so much energy and enthusiasm that we jump up and down, holding their paws as we dance and shout with them.

Adear friend is British and sent us an invitation to a coronation party a couple of months ago. It was more like a “save the date” at that point, but we could already feel his excitement. It was to be held at his and his wife’s home. We would not be expected to arrive in time to see the real thing in the middle of the night on May 6, the time difference being what it is, but rather we would catch a recording of the historic event starting at 12:30 p.m., a much more civilized hour.

We got the idea. We were to dress up. And especially, we were to wear our finest jewelry, with much bling, which in my case consists only of a string of pearls. On the day, I forgot to adorn myself. But for some reason, probably because I must have seen pictures in my checkered past, I associate Ascot with large, elegant, saucer-shaped hats.

Now I don’t own a hat, if you exempt my ski cap. So I begged a young and chic friend to loan me one of hers, which she did. It was a broad-brimmed brown straw job with a black netting, and it coordinated perfectly with the rest of my outfit, which consisted of a black silk blouse and brown patterned cotton pants.

The party was a total delight. The hosts had decorated their home with every possible bit of Britannica, from posters to red, white and blue Union Jacks that were hung from the rafters on the back deck and emblazoned on the napkins and paper plates. By the way, since I didn’t know this and was interested to learn so I am sharing with you, the Union Jack (from Jacobus, the Latin version of James) represents a combination of the flags of England, Scotland and Ireland. Sadly, Wales is not represented due to historic mistiming, but was given a “supporter” role in the royal coat of arms of England, used by the Tudors from 1485. The Welsh don’t seem to mind.

BY LEAH S. DUNAIEF

We were instructed to wear clothes that would be appropriate for a visit to Ascot. For those who might not know, Ascot is a racecourse that was founded by Queen Anne in 1711, when the American colonies

Last Saturday, Coronation Day, I sailed into the party as if I were joining the crowd at Ascot, hoping the hat would not in turn sail off from its rakish angle on the side of my head. Happily, it obeyed.

The food was symbolic and simply scrumptious. There was beef and kidney pie, pork rolls, two different kinds of quiche, salad, chopped veggies in what seemed like a vinegar drizzle, slices of fresh ham with mustard, croissants filled with lunch meat, and an overflowing bread basket. I’m sure I

The weather cooperated wonderfully, the day bright with sunshine and the perfect temperature for all humans in the 70s. As if all the above were not enough, the hosts created a Royalty Coronation Quiz. With prizes for the winners. (“Stuff I’ve wanted to get rid of for years,” according to the Master of Ceremonies.) There were 20 questions, such as “Name the three children of Prince William of Wales,” and “Explain President Biden’s snub to the British by just sending his wife to attend the Coronation.”

Some 25 guests were at the festivities, four with UK accents, the rest of us Americans, I’m guessing. We acquitted ourselves reasonably well. I came home with four flamingo long stemmed stirrers and a tiny bottle of gin.