On Wednesday, I attended my first dog birthday party. A large mutt I know named Romeo turned two, and his owner threw him a party at the dog bakery in town. I brought a handful of pig's ears for the birthday boy and took in the scene. About twenty dogs of all varieties roamed the store. Some dragged their owners on leashes while others strolled freely, socializing with each other. A Boston Terrier, a Rott cross, a West highland terrier, mixed breeds, purebreds. All hanging out at the birthday party.

On Thursday, I watched the first round of the NCAA men's basketball tournament. It was one of the few days when competitive basketball occurs from ten in the morning to ten at night. I watched teams I'd grown to know throughout the season play obscure small colleges that received very little press outside their immediate area. Unless I had a vested interest in one of the major schools, I rooted for the underdog. Holy Cross, Indiana State, Kent State, Gonzaga, Hampton. All were supposed to be bumps in the road for major schools on their way to the second round, but that's why they're called underdogs.

The dogs at the birthday party got their own cake. They had cookies that looked tantalizing enough to eat. They got jello shots filled with bullion and hot dogs. I asked if was okay to eat the dog food, and the cook said it was healthier than most of what we eat (although the food contained no salt or sugar). Romeo, who normally barks at me with cautious fear, was in his element. Among dogs, he was a player, sifting through the guests and licking butts and noses. He knew that all the commotion was about him.

The underdogs more than held their own in the first round. Utah State upset Ohio State, Butler beat Wake Forest, Gonzaga slipped by Virginia, Indiana State shocked Oklahoma, Georgia State surprised Wisconsin, and Hampton stunned Iowa State. Tiny schools rose to the occasion to become giant killers. Bucking the odds, ruining the orderly brackets, and advancing to the next round.

The owners at the birthday party were way too into their dogs. As one lady told me, "This is what the yuppie dog owners do with their time." As I drank four of the eight cups of white wine offered, I felt like a polite version of Henry Miller, out of place and surviving on the spoils of wealthy. Most of the owners were women, and they swapped stories about how their dogs got into trouble or did something amusing. They talked to every dog as if they were children. I worked at a kennel for two years, and I learned that it doesn't matter what you say to the dogs, it matters how you say it. These owners live through their dogs, plain and simple.

I am way too into the underdogs. The first two days of the tournament seemed catered to my laid back lifestyle. Once one game ceased to be competitive, CBS would switch to a better one (and this was at eleven in the morning on a Thursday). Most basketball junkies are men, and they prattle on incessantly about how their team can go all the way. They talk about each school as if they were an alumni at every one. I've been watching the tournament since I was a kid, and I've learned that a 12 seed beats a 5 every year, and a three or two will be upset by an underdog as well. Sports junkies live for their dogs, plain and simple.

The bakery caters to the dogs, having special events throughout the month. Every Wednesday is Yappy Hour, and every Monday is Small Dog Night. They have Singles Night, Rescue Clubs and speakers come in to discuss relevant dog issues.

The tournament caters to the dogs, placing every upset as a pinnacle example of why they do this every year. For three weeks, they have analysts, interviews, predictions, repredictions and postdictions.

It's totally absurd, and yet both entities do quite well. The dog women are at the bakery, and the dog men are watching basketball. The more sense I make out of it, the more I wonder how it got this way.

Chris Jungle doesn't even want to get started on cat people.