Good times. #grickledoodle #dogs #event #cartoon #art #drawing #funny #humor

Hong Kong restaurants with an area larger than 20 square metres can start applying for licences to allow dogs in their premises from May 18, the government has announced.

The Food and Environmental Hygiene Department said in a statement on Thursday that it would accept applications from May 18 to June 8.

The department is set to approve the first batch of applications in mid-June, with dogs to be allowed in restaurants in July.

The statement said that “the FEHD will specify a date in July from which dogs will be allowed to enter permitted food premises.”

While the Food Business (Amendment) Regulation 2026 came into effect on Friday, the FEHD reminded the public that “restaurants must first submit an application and obtain approval before allowing dogs to enter.”

Hotpot and barbecue restaurants are not eligible to apply for the permits, the government said, citing safety concerns.

The FEHD will hold briefing sessions for restaurant operators from Monday to Wednesday next week, as well as on May 28.

The department said it would publish a list of dog-friendly restaurants once the first batch of permits is approved.

The government said in February that it would issue 500-1,000 dog-friendly permits to local eateries in mid-June.

Hong Kong leader John Lee announced the plan to relax an outdated policy banning dogs in restaurants in his 2025 Policy Address in September.

The announcement to update the decades-old Food Business Regulation came after a pet-friendly restaurant in Tai Po had to suspend operations for seven days in January last year for allowing dogs inside.

Any dog owner can appreciate the kind of unfettered, often visceral reactions canines have to everything from their favorite treats to a scurrying squirrel to another dog passing by the window. Their lack of inhibition and legendary fidelity bring comfort, routine, and goofiness to our daily lives despite their total unawareness of their effects on us. For Stephen Morrison, curiosity and play find their way into vibrant, quirky paintings that “invite viewers to rediscover the magic and absurdity often obscured by the routine,” he says.

Morrison’s practice has lately revolved around trompe l’œil compositions of everyday objects and tableaux in which dogs’ features appear unexpectedly. A snout stands in for the flap of a handbag or juts out from the side of a Pepsi can. His current solo exhibition, Dog Show #5: Field Recordings at SLAG&RX, centers on a series of objects referencing places he worked on the pieces—Paris, New York City, and Maine—that also play important roles in his life.

Morrison’s own memories and connections find their way into his collection of books, foods, photographs, and other items in an almost seek-and-find fashion. At first glance, the tableaux appear simply as collections of everyday things like vases, fruit, and cameras. But upon closer inspection, tiny visages appear along with references to dogs, from bones stitched into patchwork backgrounds to the sleepy face of a pooch in the center of a starfish and a bunch of green grapes with puppy faces. Always relaxed, even sleepy, the dogs’ expressions evoke a calm sweetness, even nostalgia, paired with a sense of abundance.

In this series, the artist grapples with what belonging means, from revisiting his childhood home in Maine to thinking about his past decade in New York City to spending two months in Paris, where, “despite being married to a Frenchman, having many French friends, and having spent considerable time in the city, I had never felt at home,” he says. “The ornate beauty of the architecture and the sense I have of everything being solidly ‘in its place’ makes it hard to feel inspired there for me.” So, he set out to explore that sense of disjointedness and creative conflict.

France is referenced in Morrison’s paintings by backgrounds of toile, or toile de jouy, a fabric design popular in the 18th century that features pastoral scenes, while Maine is represented by patchwork quilts he co-designed with his mother, who actually stitched them before they were incorporated into the works. “By bringing the objects and backgrounds into my dog world, I’ve rewritten my external material world through this lens, creating a new and more uniquely personal vision of these places,” he says.

Morrison will be an artist-in-residence at BUoY in Tokyo this summer, where he’s looking forward to incorporating Japanese textiles into a new series of paintings. He’s also preparing for a pop-up solo exhibition at Lazy Mike Gallery in Seoul and a group exhibition at Hashimoto Contemporary. Dog Show #5: Field Recordings continues through March 28 in New York. See more on the artist’s Instagram.

Do stories and artists like this matter to you? Become a Colossal Member today and support independent arts publishing for as little as $7 per month. The article Stephen Morrison’s Trompe-L’œil ‘Dog World’ Paintings Are Fetching appeared first on Colossal.

The realm of animation is no stranger to dark, morbid, and disturbing material. It can be the violent and haunting visuals of Watership Down or the surreal chaos of Belladonna of Sadness, but the medium has long been a way for artists and storytellers to deal with heavy themes through a very creative, colorful, and impactful lens. However, when it comes to sheer misery and bleakness on the animated big screen, it really doesn't get more harrowing than Grave of the Fireflies, Studio Ghibli's 1988 anti-war masterpiece. Based on Akiyuki Nosaka's 1967 semi-autobiographical short story, the film follows siblings Seita and Setsuko as they attempt to survive in the aftermath of the Kobe bombing of 1945.

The remains of an ancient dingo is shining new light on deep relationships between Australia’s First Nations and the wild dogs. Barkindji ancestors deliberately cared for and buried the dingo along the Baaka (Darling River) about 800 miles west of Sydney. 

The dingo is known as garli in Barkindji language and they lived alongside the Barkindji as part of the community. While burying the dog, the Barkindji took great care in building a midden, or a spot to place organic material. The people living there continued to bring river mussel shells to the midden for hundreds of years after the dingo’s death. Archaeologists believe that this marks the first time this type of post-death feeding ritual has been scientifically documented. The findings are detailed in a study published today in the journal Australian Archeology.

“While Barkindji people have always known about this cultural practice, this discovery is really powerful because it provides new details on the depth of that relationship between Barkindji people and dingoes,” study co-author Dr. Amy Way, an archaeologist at the Australia Museum and university, said in a statement. “If garli were buried with the same care and respect we see for human ancestors, including mothers and elders, it tells us these animals were profoundly valued and loved.”

The burial site was first identified in 2020 by Barkindji Elder Uncle Badger Bates and National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS) archaeologist Dan Witter within a road cutting as erosion exposed the skeleton. Barkindji custodian Dave Doyleand and Elder Barb Quayle worked alongside the team during the analysis and excavation requested by the Menindee Aboriginal Elders Council. Elderlders guided the care of the remains throughout the research, including smoking ceremonies at the beginning of the excavation to honor their departed ancestor. 

The male dingo was deliberately buried sometime between 963 and 916 years ago within a midden along the river. It was about four to seven years old, and his heavily worn teeth suggest a long life spent hunting.

Interestingly, the dingo had several healed injuries, including a broken lower leg and broken ribs. Based on the injuries, the dog may have been kicked by a kangaroo while hunting. This shows that the dingo likely survived with prolonged care by the Barkindji people. 

“This confirms these traditions were much more widespread than we once thought,” added study co-author Dr. Loukas Koungoulos, a postdoctoral fellow at the University of Western Australia and research associate at the Australian Museum. “Dingoes like this garli weren’t simply tolerated around camps. They were tamed, lived with people and were embedded in daily life.”

When the dingo died, he was buried in a midden that appears to have been built right before the burial or at the same time People kept adding to it for hundreds of years after death. Barkindji Elders say that these ongoing additions formed part of a “feeding” ritual that honored the dog as an ancestor and that the site was maintained across multiple generations. After the analysis,  the dingo’s remains were returned to Country. In Indigenous contexts, the word Country is capitalized to include the physical land and deep spiritual, cultural, and social dimensions of the area that are integral to identity and heritage.

“This research reinforces what Barkindji people have always known,” Dr Way said. “These relationships with animals, ancestors and Country were deep, deliberate and ongoing.”

The post 1,000-year-old dingo bones show that it was injured, cared for, and ritually buried appeared first on Popular Science.

Magical potatoes. #grickledoodle #pugs #unicorns #pegasus #dogs #cartoon #art #drawing #funny #humor

Cultural quirks have a hand in making the same name the favorite for dogs and cats in annual study.

Japan’s most famous fictional cat might be the one named Kitty, but when it comes to actual pets, owners tend to get a little more creative with their choices. To investigate what Japan’s most popular pet names are, Daiichi ipet, the pet insurance division of Daiichi Life Group, recently conducted a study of the animal companions it covers, and there’s a common theme among many of the top entries on its list of dog and cat names.

The rankings were compiled by examining the names of dogs and cats who were less than one year old when new insurance policies were taken out for them during the last fiscal year (April 2025-March 2026), and for the sixth year in a row, the most popular name for dogs is Mugi. Mugi is also the number-one name for cats, jumping up to take the top spot from last year’s most popular feline moniker, Latte.

● Top names for dogs
1. Mugi
2. Latte
3. Mocha
4. Cocoa
5. Komugi
● Top names for cats
1. Mugi
2 (tie). Latte/Luna
4. Kinako
5. Leo
6. Mocha

▼ There’s a pretty good chance that at least one of the cats in this photo is named Mugi.

Many pet owners choosing “Luna” are no doubt thinking of Sailor Moon’s cat mentor of the same name, and “Leo” which was the top pick for male cats, is clearly meant to invoke images of lions. Take those two out of the above-listed names, though, and every remaining name has something in common: they’re all food/drink related.

Mugi is the Japanese word for either barley or wheat, and komugi is wheat specifically. There are even more food/drink names if you look farther down the list, with Kinako (roasted soybean powder) and Marron (the French word for “chestnut,” but commonly used in Japanese by sweets fans) at numbers 6 and 8 for dogs, and Omochi (rice cake) and Cocoa at numbers 7 and 8 for dogs.

This isn’t a brand-new trend, either. All of the above-mentioned names were also in Daiichi ipet’s lists of the top 10 dog and cat names in 2024, and giving pets food/drink-related names has been a thing in Japan for much longer than that, and a lot of their enduring popularity probably comes from two reasons.

Let’s start with the obvious one, which ties in to another common thread between many of the most popular names, which is that almost all of them are some shade of brown in color. The exception is Omochi, which is usually white, but even rice cakes take on a golden-brown color if you roast them, as is often done in Japan. A lot of dogs and cats have coats of fur somewhere on the spectrum between brown and gold, so giving them a food/drink name is a way to reference that physical trait.

Another factor that’s likely that in play here, though, is that in Japan it’s not very common to give pets the same names that people have. While there are also-for-people names in English that might have someone thinking of a dog first (like Rex or Rusty), you’ll also often encounter pets in the U.S. with names like Max, Daisy, Penny, or Charlie (all of which are on the American Kennel Club’s list of the most popular dog names in the U.S. for 2025). By comparison, though, it’s rare for Japanese pet owners to give their animals a modern for-people Japanese name like Haruto or Himari, as it would come off feeling overly dry and self-serious. The common logic in Japan is that pets should have names that are playful and fun. A food/drink-based name checks off those boxes, and if it matches the color of the pet’s coat, then there’s no need to explain the name to other people either.

When picking names for pets in Japan, foreign for-people names have a bit more pizzazz (in addition to being the number 4 name for cats in Daiichi ipet’s study, Leo was also the number 8 name for dogs), but then so do foreign food/drink names like Latte, Mocha, and Cocoa. There’s an interesting wrinkle to this, though, that shows up when Daiichi ipet’s study breaks down the most popular names for dogs by breed. Mocha, Cocoa, and Latte were all somewhere within the top three names for toy poodles, Chihuahuas, Pomeranians, and miniature Dachshunds. However, for the Shiba Inu, all three of the breed’s most popular names were Japanese words for foods: Komugi, Azuki (sweet red beans), and Mugi. Odds are this stems from “Shiba Inu” itself being a pair of Japanese words that’ve come to be the internationally accepted way of referring to the breed, making a Japanese-vocabulary food name feel like the best fit.

Source: Daiichi ipet via Otona Answer via Livedoor News via Golden Times
Top image: Pakutaso
Insert images: Pakutaso (1, 2)
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Last fall, a study of raccoons found that these city-dwelling trash pandas are beginning to look different than their rural cousins in the U.S.—they appear to be domesticating themselves.

It wouldn’t be the first time a wild animal species manipulated humanity for its own benefit. Dogs did it at least 14,000 years ago, discovering that befriending garbage-producing humans resulted in tastier, more abundant scraps and less arduous lives on their own. New genetic data indicates that cats feeding off the abundant rodents plundering human food stores domesticated themselves for similar reasons around 10,000 years ago. 

Dogs and cats hanging around worked out pretty well for humans, too. The first dogs served as early-warning systems, protectors, and hunting buddies. Cats, on the other hand, helped keep food fresher and reduced the spread of disease. Over time, through a combination of natural selection and human intervention, they evolved into the cute and cuddly companion animals of today.

Could urban raccoons be headed down the same evolutionary path straight into the American home? 

Raccoons as pets

With their expressive masked faces and dexterous little fingers, pet raccoons are already found en masse on social media: sleeping in open dresser drawers and picking Fruit Loops out of cereal bowls. But the algorithm only shows one side of what Lauren Stanton, postdoctoral fellow at the Schell Lab at the University of California, Berkeley, describes as “very active and intelligent animals with complex needs.” 

Problem number one? Raccoons are nocturnal. They sleep in tight spaces during the day and venture out at dusk to forage, hunt, explore, and socialize across vast territories that can stretch as many as three square miles. And they don’t do it quietly. Raccoons have all sorts of vocalizations: purrs, chirps, hisses, and straight-up screams. A hollering, busybody raccoon does not a good night’s sleep make. 

And then there are those paws which, despite a lack of opposable thumbs, are remarkably agile. A pet raccoon would be able to untie knots, unlatch locks, unscrew jars of food, and open doors in the middle of the night to let their wild compatriots in for raucous, sexy parties during mating season.

As highly-opportunistic omnivores, raccoons hunt insects, aquatic animals, small mammals, and birds. They also scavenge just about anything they can find. Not only would the food in fridges and cabinets fall victim to their nightly raids, they could never be trusted around a gerbil or bird cage—and god forbid there’s a fish tank around. 

Nor would they discriminate about the water chosen for dipping their food, a common behavior which increases paw sensitivity while eating. Toilet bowl, sink full of dirty dishes, or that poor, beleaguered fish tank—it’s all the same to them.

Altogether, this web of destructive, innate behaviors is one that not even ongoing domestication would be likely to ever make compatible with the human home—not that people are likely to stop trying.

“I have talked to many people over the years who have attempted to own raccoons, and their story often ends the same: The raccoon got too difficult to manage and so they ‘released it back to the wild,’” says Stanton, a deadly problem for human-raised raccoons that never learned essential survival skills.

Domestication vs. Domesticated

The evolutionary path of virtually every domesticated animal has undergone “domestication syndrome”—a pattern of physical changes seen across diverse species that includes the development of floppier ears, flatter and rounder faces, and curlier tails over time. 

A 2025 study of the snout-to-skull-length ratio of close to 20,000 images of American raccoons posted on the citizen science platform iNaturalist found the snouts of urban raccoons were 3.56 percent shorter than those of rural raccoons—possibly an early symptom of domestication syndrome.

But Stanton isn’t completely convinced that’s actually what’s happening in these urban populations. 

“Although morphological changes might have a genetic basis, there are multiple reasons why such changes could occur,” she explains. “Changes in skull shape, for example, could be due to changes in an animal’s diet, since many urban species shift towards eating softer, carbohydrate-rich foods found in our garbage.” 

Changes in urban raccoon behavior can’t automatically be chalked up to domestication either. 

“If raccoons become habituated to people or learn to associate them with food, they might behave in a more docile or tame manner around people, but this does not mean that they are domesticated,” Stanton continues. Additional empirical evidence, including examination of the raccoon genome, is needed to know for sure.

Regardless, Stanton is adamant that there is no hypothetical future in which raccoons could realistically become good house pets. 

“In my opinion, what makes raccoons so charismatic is their curiosity and unruly nature,” she says. 

“If we attempt to strip away their wildness through ownership or attempts at domestication, then we may lose some of the qualities that make them so special in the first place.” 

In Ask Us Anything, Popular Science answers your most outlandish, mind-burning questions, from the everyday things you’ve always wondered to the bizarre things you never thought to ask. Have something you’ve always wanted to know? Ask us.

The post Could raccoons become the new dogs? appeared first on Popular Science.

If your dog stops mid-walk to chew on a patch of lawn, you’ve probably wondered whether something is wrong. Of the delicious food options available to them, why would they choose leafy, bitter grass? Many owners assume the worst: that the dog has an upset stomach and is eating grass to make itself throw up.

Dr. Melissa Bain doesn’t see it that way. “My dog enjoys it every day,” says Bain, a professor of clinical animal behavior at the University of California, Davis. “If we ever mow the grass, [he’ll] go out there and just start chomping on it.” To her, it reads as a snack, not a symptom.

The idea that dogs graze to purge a sick stomach is one of the explanations owners reach for most. But it’s not what the research shows.

Eating grass is normal dog behavior

Grass eating is extremely common. In a 2008 UC Davis study, 79 percent of owners whose dogs had daily access to plants said their dog ate them. A follow-up internet survey of more than 1,500 owners found that 68 percent of dogs grazed daily or weekly, and grass was by far the plant they ate most.

If a behavior turns up in roughly three out of four dogs, it’s hard to call it a sign of illness.

Most dogs don’t get sick from grass

If dogs really ate grass to purge, you’d expect them to look ill first and vomit afterward. Most don’t. 

The same 2008 study found that only about 9 percent of dogs seemed sick before grazing, and only around 22 percent regularly vomited after. 

Diet made no difference either. Whether dogs were fed raw food, kibble, or a vegetarian diet had no bearing on whether they ate grass. 

“There is no nutritional basis for that that we know of,” Bain says of the theory that grazing makes up for something missing in a dog’s food. It’s a normal behavior, she adds, and one she sees mostly in healthy animals.

Her interviews with owners point in the same direction. When Bain asked what a dog was doing right before it ate grass, the dogs that already seemed unwell were the ones more likely to throw up afterward. The dogs that seemed fine usually didn’t. So, when sickness does show up, it tends to come before the grass, not because of it. The vomiting looks like a side effect, not the goal.

A popular version of that idea is that dogs graze to flush intestinal worms out of their gut. But many of the dogs in the survey were on monthly heartworm medication, which also clears intestinal worms—so those dogs had nothing to flush out. They grazed anyway.

They probably just like it

Once you set illness and diet aside, the explanation that’s left is appetite. “Most dogs eat grass because it is a food they enjoy,” says Carlo Siracusa, professor of clinical small animal behavior and welfare at the University of Pennsylvania.

Bain has noticed the same thing. Dogs tend to go for moist, long-stemmed grass, the tender kind that comes up early in the morning. They’re choosing what tastes good to them.

The behavior may be inherited from wild ancestors

Why dogs like grass in the first place is harder to answer. The 2008 study proposed that grazing is a normal behavior, possibly an instinct carried over from wild canid ancestors. 

Bain finds that idea convincing. One ecological version of that idea holds that grass once helped wild canids clear intestinal worms—the fibrous strands wrap around the worms and carry them out in the droppings. Bain points to wild-canid droppings to support this idea: They often hold long strands of plant material, sometimes with parasites tangled in it. But it isn’t proof, she says.

A 2021 study of domestic cats had similar results: Very few cats looked ill before eating plants, and the behavior appeared normal and likely innate rather than a reaction to feeling sick. (Cats did vomit more often than dogs—up to a third of the time—which the authors say may reflect some gastric upset.) Why the instinct exists at all is still an open question.

When it’s worth a second look

Only rarely does grass-eating become a problem, Bain says—when it becomes compulsive. Siracusa says it can turn excessive enough to cause an intestinal obstruction. 

“I have seen this in anxious dogs, but it does not represent the norm,” he says. In nearly three decades of practice, Bain can remember only one dog whose grazing was truly compulsive, and that dog obsessively ate everything, not just plants.

What matters is the pattern. A dog that grazes constantly, looks sick before eating, or vomits regularly afterward is worth a trip to the veterinarian, since the underlying cause may be nausea or another gut problem. It’s also a good idea to keep grass-eating dogs off chemically treated lawns and away from plants that are toxic to dogs.

For most dogs, though, none of that applies. “Most owners should not be concerned if their dog eats grass,” Siracusa says. For a lot of dogs, grass is just the first snack of the day.

In Ask Us Anything, Popular Science answers your most outlandish, mind-burning questions, from the everyday things you’ve always wondered to the bizarre things you never thought to ask. Have something you’ve always wanted to know? Ask us.

The post Why your dog eats grass appeared first on Popular Science.

When you want to use a smile GIF, at least one in 10 are of dogs that grin or appear to smile, with their mouths wide open. But do dogs really smile? And if they do, does that mean they’re happy? Maybe, but a lot depends on context, say canine experts.

The dogs in those GIFs really are doing something with their faces. The lips are pulled back. The mouth is open. But what we see, i.e. a smile, and what the dog feels don’t always line up.

Dog faces are wired for expression

Anne Burrows, an anatomist at Duquesne University who studies the comparative anatomy of facial expression in dogs, has studied enough dog and wolf faces to know that the muscles underneath work very differently. Dog facial muscles are mostly fast-twitch—meaning they contract quickly and can produce the fleeting movements we associate with spontaneous expression.

“The faster your muscles are, the more genuine the facial expression is,” Burrows tells Popular Science. “Dogs are our best friends. They tell the truth. We can count on them to let us know how they’re feeling.”

Wolves have more slow-twitch face muscles, Burrows says. Those muscles are better suited to holding the lips in a steady funnel to howl than to flicker through expressions. Dogs aren’t just friendlier wolves. Their faces evolved differently. 

Burrows has noted in a study that dogs’ shift to fast-twitch facial muscles wasn’t accidental. Dogs whose faces moved quickly were easier to read, and over tens of thousands of years, those were the dogs that humans kept around. Wolves signal to wolves. Dogs signal to us. 

But a dog “smile” isn’t always a smile

That doesn’t mean every dogs’ grin-shaped expression means what we think. Karen Jesch, a PhD student at Boston College’s Canine Cognition Center, points out that human smiling is a strange behavior to begin with, and not always a happy one.

“If you look at our closest relative, the chimpanzee, when they pull their cheeks back and part their lips and expose their teeth, that’s usually a fear grimace. It signals that they’re anxious, displaying submission, or ready to fight,” Jesch says. 

Dogs do something similar. A dog might pull its lips back into something that looks like a smile, but that expression might actually mean the dog is uneasy, not happy. A relaxed mouth hanging loosely open is more likely to mean a dog is at ease. But humans tend to read both as smiling.

We’re worse at reading dog faces than we think

Research has shown that humans are not as good at reading dog facial expressions as they assume, Jesch says. Part of that is anthropomorphism, the urge to map our own feelings onto animals.

“We want to assume that dogs love us and are happy. So, we’ll look at a dog running around with other dogs and think, ‘If I were them, I’d be happy. So, they must be smiling.’” Sometimes, she says, that does the dog a disservice when they aren’t actually having a good time.

The classic example is the “guilty look.” A dog cowers when its owner discovers a chewed shoe, and we read shame on its face. But experiments suggest the look isn’t really about guilt. It’s what Jesch calls an “appeasement signal” triggered by the owner’s body language—the dog’s way of trying to defuse the situation before it gets worse. 

“They’re more likely just doing an appeasement signal to say, please don’t be mad at me,” Jesch says. 

Context matters. A “smiling” dog curled up on the couch next to you is probably content, Burrows says. The same expression in a loud, chaotic environment, paired with a tucked tail, might mean the dog wants to leave.

Why dogs have such expressive faces

Burrows favors a version of the domestication story in which dogs domesticated themselves. Ancestral wolves that were less afraid of humans began following hunting parties and scavenging leftovers. The ones better at showing that they meant no harm got closer to the camps.

“There’s some back and forth about how dogs and humans decided to be together,” Burrows says, “but it’s almost like dogs figured out a way to domesticate themselves.” Easier-to-read faces likely gave some dogs an edge—humans grew attached to them and kept them close. 

Dogs don’t communicate just using their faces, however. Burrows points out that dogs rely heavily on their ears, too. Relaxed ears usually mean a dog is approachable; ears pinned flat against the head usually signal fear or stress. (Her lab is now studying the muscles that move dog ears, and how they differ from those of cats, who barely move theirs.) 

Breeds like pugs, with their flattened faces, can be especially hard to read, Jesch adds. Their squashed-in features make subtle expressions harder to interpret than they would be on a Labrador.

So is a smiling dog actually happy?

Sometimes, yes. A relaxed open mouth, soft eyes, a loose body, and a wagging tail in a calm setting probably mean a dog is enjoying itself. The same teeth-baring grin in a tense moment, with a stiff body and pinned ears, is something different, and worth paying attention to.

The good news, Jesch says, is that humans can get better at this. “If everybody who loves dogs were to spend a little bit of time learning how to interpret their signals, I think we could help them live much happier lives.”

So, the next time you fire off the smiling-dog GIF, know that might not be an expression of joy. Certainly, the dog in the image is doing something with its face—what it means depends on what else is happening around it.

In Ask Us Anything, Popular Science answers your most outlandish, mind-burning questions, from the everyday things you’ve always wondered to the bizarre things you never thought to ask. Have something you’ve always wanted to know? Ask us.

The post Do dogs smile? Not like us. appeared first on Popular Science.