What Bothers a Great Dane About Their Humans

Look, I’m Yeti, and I need to get some things off my chest: Great Dane-sized chest, by the way, not one of those regular dog chests. My humans seem genuinely surprised every single day that I want to sit on their lap. I weigh 150 pounds; this shouldn’t be news to anyone at this point. Cuddles are how I show love; I didn’t make the rules.

Here’s another thing: the food portions. They fill my bowl like I’m some kind of Chihuahua; I’m practically a small horse. I need fuel here, people. And don’t even get me started on the bed situation. They bought me a bed designed for a terrier; my leg doesn’t even fit on it. I just stare at it sometimes and wonder if they think I’m going to magically shrink overnight.

The walks are brutal too. They shuffle along at this glacial pace; meanwhile, I’ve got these legs that were built for covering ground. It’s like being stuck behind someone going 20 in a 65. And here’s the real kicker: that spot on the couch they love so much? I claimed that months ago; they’re just borrowing it when I’m not using it.

These are the things that really get under my fur.

Acting Surprised When They Try to Be a Lap Dog

Great Danes weigh up to 175 pounds, yet they genuinely believe they’re pocket sized puppies meant for your lap. When I climb onto the couch and drape myself across your legs, I’m showing you love. Your surprise reactions hurt my feelings every single time.

I don’t understand why you gasp when I approach. I’ve always been a lap dog at heart. My size doesn’t change my need for closeness and affection. Those dramatic sighs and wide eyes make me question whether you truly appreciate my cuddles.

Instead of acting shocked, embrace the warmth I bring. Yes, I’ll crush your legs temporarily. Yes, breathing becomes difficult. But isn’t my happiness worth minor discomfort? Accept that I’ll forever see myself as your personal, oversized lap dog.

Look, I’m Yeti, and I’m about 150 pounds of pure love: but somehow you act surprised every time I hop on your lap. I mean, I’ve lived here for three years; what did you think was gonna happen? When I climb onto the couch and just sort of collapse on top of you, that’s me being sweet. But you make this face like I just told you I’m running for president.

I honestly don’t get the gasping thing. I’ve been a lap dog since day one: my brain didn’t get the memo about my size. Sure, you can’t feel your legs after five minutes; sure, you start sweating like you’re in a sauna: but that’s just bonus warmth. Those big sighs you do make me wonder if maybe you don’t appreciate having a living weighted blanket.

Here’s the thing: just accept it. Yeah, your circulation gets cut off. Yeah, you might need help getting up afterward. But isn’t that a small price to pay for this much affection? I’m always gonna think I’m lap dog sized: it’s just who I am. Great Danes can sense human emotions, acting as emotional support that enhances our bond.

We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but either way, I’m getting on that couch.

Serving Portions Fit for a Chihuahua

When you pour my breakfast into that bowl, I watch in disbelief as barely two cups of kibble hit the bottom. My meal expectations involve something substantial; I’m the size of a small pony, after all. Your portion control methods seem calibrated for a dog one tenth my size.

Here’s what I need you to understand:

1. My stomach doesn’t know you’re “following the bag guidelines”
2. I burn more calories yawning than a Chihuahua does running laps
3. That measuring cup looks comically small in your hands
4. I can literally see the bowl’s bottom before I start eating

I’m not asking for endless food. I’m asking you to acknowledge that feeding a 150 pound dog requires proportional thinking. It’s like trying to fuel a truck with a motorcycle’s gas tank; it just doesn’t make sense.

You seem like a smart person, but this math isn’t adding up. I’ve seen you confused about other stuff before: like why your phone charger stopped working when you ran over it with your car. But this is different. This is my breakfast we’re talking about.

Look, I’m Yeti, and I get it: you read something on the internet about overfeeding. That’s fine. But whoever wrote that article probably owned a Yorkie.

I’m out here being tall, existing, breathing heavily because that’s just what Great Danes do, and you think two cups of kibble is gonna cut it? My heart alone probably weighs more than two cups of kibble. Remember, proper nutrition is essential to support my overall health and prevent serious conditions.

Buying Beds That Belong in a Dollhouse

Although I appreciate your attempt at providing me with a place to sleep, that bed you brought home fits exactly one of my paws. Seriously, that thing looks like dollhouse decor. I’m a Great Dane, not a teacup poodle.

Here’s what I need versus what you’ve given me:

Feature	Your Purchase	What I Actually Need
Length	24 inches	54: inches
Width	18 inches	36: inches
Weight Capacity	25 lbs	150: lbs

I’ve tried curling up, but my legs dangle off every edge. You wouldn’t sleep on a pillow; so why should I? Oversized beds exist for a reason. Please invest in one before I claim your couch permanently. After all, a supportive bed is essential for joint health and comfort.

Forgetting That Counters Are at Perfect Snout Height

Speaking of things you haven’t thought through, let’s talk about your kitchen counters.

You’ve placed them at the exact height where my nose operates best. Then you act shocked when counter surfing becomes my favorite hobby. This isn’t a design flaw on my part; it’s an invitation you created.

Here’s what you’re basically advertising to me:

1. Cooling steaks left unattended within nostril range
2. Butter dishes positioned like snack dispensers
3. Sandwich ingredients spread across my personal buffet
4. Thanksgiving turkey sitting at perfect snout level

My snack thievery isn’t criminal behavior; it’s simply accepting what you’ve offered. Proper nutrition is essential for maintaining my calm demeanor, so can you really blame me for seeking out tasty morsels?

You wouldn’t dangle treats in front of a toddler and expect restraint. Push food to the back or accept that sharing is now mandatory in this household.

Walking Too Slow During Neighborhood Strolls

Every neighborhood walk becomes an exercise in patience because you insist on stopping at every mailbox, fire hydrant, and interesting crack in the sidewalk.

My legs are practically stilts: built for covering ground efficiently. Your slow pace turns a simple block into an eternity.

I understand you enjoy leisurely strolls, but consider my perspective. Each step I take equals about three of yours; yet somehow we’re moving at a snail’s crawl.

My muscles ache to stretch: to feel the wind against my ears as we move with purpose.

The squirrels mock me from their trees, knowing I’ll never catch them at this speed. Other dogs pass us by: their owners matching their energy.

Meanwhile, I’m stuck practicing my patience while you examine another garden gnome. It’s like going to a museum with someone who reads every single plaque; except the museum is just our street, and the plaques are just regular mailboxes.

Look, I’m not saying I want to run a marathon or anything. I’m just saying that if we go any slower, we might actually start moving backwards.

That’s not even scientifically possible, but at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised. You stop to look at things I didn’t even know existed: an interesting pebble, someone’s lawn ornament, that one house with the weird shutters.

I’m out here trying to be a majestic Great Dane named Yeti, and you’ve got me moving like a parade float in slow motion. Regular socialization is important for my behavior, and this slow pace isn’t helping!

Leaving No Room on the Couch for Their Majesty

When I finally get back from our super slow walk, I expect my spot on the couch to be open.

Instead, you’re laying across the whole thing like you’re the one who pays rent here. Um, hello: this is basically my bed, not yours.

Here’s what you should know about how couch space works:

1. I weigh 150 pounds; that means I need like two thirds of the couch
2. Your computer, blankets, and bags of chips shouldn’t get the best spots
3. That warm spot you made? Yeah, that’s mine now; it’s just how things work
4. You sitting on the tiny edge while I stretch out: that’s the right way to do this

I’m gonna stand here and stare at you until you scoot over.

Don’t think I won’t; I can make my eyes look really sad and you know it works every time. Plus, if you don’t make room, I might accidentally knock you over when I get too excited to cuddle during our short, controlled cuddle sessions.

Final Thoughts

Listen, I’m Yeti, and I’ve been keeping a mental list; yeah, I notice everything you do. Every single undersized bed you expect my 150 pounds to squeeze onto: judged. Every tiny food portion you scoop into my bowl: also judged. You seem shocked when I try to sit on your lap, but here’s the thing: I am a lap dog. That’s just a fact. My brain knows it; my heart knows it; apparently your spine doesn’t know it yet, but we’ll get there. You can argue all you want, but I’m going to win because I’ve got size and cuteness on my side. So here’s what needs to happen: bigger couch space for me, way more food in that bowl, and maybe just accept that when I want to be a lap dog, I’m going to be a lap dog. It’s not complicated; you’re just overthinking it.