When you own a fluffy dog that you frequently carry, people automatically assume it's a Paris Hilton-type dog. I suppose it's natural to figure such a delicate-looking animal will be just as delicate (read: spoiled) as it appears to be.
Then again, it also makes sense that a dog and its owner are going to have personalities that are in some ways comparable.
So, I go to obedience class (Prada is the one enrolled, not me), toss down the flowery rug, and those people I haven't met before ooh and ahh at how gosh-durn cute she is.
Most don't notice that I break the treats into pinhead-sized pieces. Prada swallows things whole, and one emergency trip to the vet for blocked intestines was enough, thank you.
They do, however, notice when she suddenly stops what she is doing, looks at me for a long moment, and then lets out a huge belch.
That's my girl.
(True: Dogs fart when they are relaxed. My Sister the Lawyer has two very, very mellow boxers.)