Warm weather and sunny skies have arrived, and everywhere I go people are outside with their dogs.

Broad Ripple's dog-friendliness is one of my favorite traits about our neighborhood. Being a dog person, I can't help but smile when I see dogs and their people out and about.

On the streets of the Village, happy pooches hang by their owners' sides for a leisurely stroll to Three Dog Bakery. Obedient Labs and Border Collies fetch frisbees in corner parks and front yards, unrestrained by leashes.

Those, unfortunately, are not my dogs.

When I see such pleasant examples of dog-dom, my initial happiness gives way to unbridled envy.

On the streets of Broad Ripple, my two mutts are the ones straining at their leashes and twisting around me in an attempt to mark every light pole, garbage can and sandwich-board sign in the Village.

Hops, a German shepherd mix, is stranger-phobic and overprotective of me, unless you're behind the counter at the dog bakery and thus likely to offer him a treat. For all his issues, however, Hops is relatively easy to control when I'm on the other end of a leash to reassure him. His "brother" Barley, on the other hand, is a Hound from Hell.

I've spent six years trying to determine what breeds contribute to Barley's genetic makeup, and my only conclusion is that he's a mere few generations removed from the wild. He's friendly enough to people-actually, indifferent would be a better word-but has the cunning of a fox.

He's developed a "twist and wiggle" move to free himself from the leash that binds. Suddenly I'll find an empty collar dangling limp at the end of his tether, and Barley gleefully sprinting down the street. Once I caught up with him submerged in someone's front-yard fish pond, cooling off with a swim after his illicit antics.

Another time the two dogs teamed up and drug me, on my back, underneath a pine tree in pursuit of their nemesis The Cat. I looked up from under the tree to see a man who'd asked me out on a date a few months before, standing wide-eyed in wonder at the spectacle of canine badness that had unfolded before him in his front yard. At least the guy had the decency to pretend he didn't know me.

People have told me that there are no bad dogs, only bad owners. While I firmly believe that Barley, at least, is diabolical to his core, I can't entirely argue the point. The dogs are definitely a reflection of their owner. More than once I've said that I have farm dogs that happen to live in the city, and you could say the same about me. I grew up romping fields and streams like our big mutts, and it seems unnecessarily harsh to completely break that spirit.

I've trained the dogs, and myself, only as much as necessary to live among people. We're easy to spot around town-I'm the one wearing bib overalls, spouting the occasional expletive, while my two rambunctious hounds walk me. We love the Downtown Canal because Barley can swim on his leash as Hops and I walk on the sidewalk. If someone looks our way disapprovingly, I explain that my dog can't read the "No Swimming" signs, and go on.

Perhaps one day I'll become civilized enough to own a city dog, one that comes when it's called, nuzzles up to people to be petted, and likes to play fetch. Until then, don't be disconcerted if you see a woman in overalls looking wistfully at your Good Dog.