To my dog, the NCAA Tournament means little.

His master sits on the couch all day long, devouring a bag of potato chips and occasionally mustering a grunt.

But he understands what’s going on.

He knows it isn’t Super Bowl Sunday because it goes on for several days. Despite the occasional hooting and hollering, he knows it isn’t the Miss America pageant because the chips stay in the owner’s mouth. He also can still see his yellow snow, so he knows the World Series is out of the question.

But he doesn’t change his daily habits the way most people do at the beginning of March. For him, it’s just another couple weeks in the life of the dog.

To him, the tourney isn’t about his rivalry with the Connecticut or Washington Huskies.

My dog has never tried to eat a TCU Horned Frog. He’s never leaped into a tree after a Kansas Jayhawk. And he hasn’t pawed at a Richmond Spider.

He isn’t scared of the Cincinnati Bearcats. And, like his owner and the average American, my dog has no idea what a Maryland Terrapin, a New Mexico Lobo or a St. Louis Billiken is.

He’s never questioned whether Fairleigh Dickinson should be hyphenated. And he’s never had trouble spelling Valparaiso.

My dog hasn’t battled for 20 minutes over whether the No. 6 seed Clemson Tigers can beat the No. 3 seed Stanford Cardinal. (He also has never been confused as to why Stanford has a singular nickname.)

He never complained that the Indiana Hoosiers, the fifth Big Ten team taken, received a No. 7 seed, while Oklahoma, the Big 12’s third squad, nabbed a No. 10.

My dog didn’t squint at the blurry television screen when Iona was introduced as a tournament team. And he didn’t cheer when he realized it wasn’t Iowa.

He doesn’t mind the fact that his eyes don’t let him distinguish between the Duke Blue Devils and the Syracuse Orangemen.

He’s never figured out whether Duke’s coach (Coach K for short) has a longer last name than the team’s point guard (Wojo for short).

He had no idea that San Francisco hadn’t “donned” a team into the Big Dance in years.

My dog has never debated whether Arizona or Kentucky has the wilder cats.

He’s more worried about intruders coming into the house, than he is about fighting Illini.

He may have heard that George Washington was the first president of the United States, but he has no idea that it is a college as well.

He just accepts the fact that Princeton can only lose one game all season with five slow, unathletic white guys.

He didn’t take the time to figure out that 11 of the 64 teams’ first names end with the letter A.

My pup wasn’t the one who figured out that there are eight teams representing the Carolinas and five from Michigan.

He still doesn’t understand the joke: “What happens when the fog clears in California? (Answer: UCLA)” anymore than the commands “stay” or “sit.”

A few years ago, he slept through Christian Laettner’s legendary game-winning shot against Kentucky. Last year, he merely barked when Kansas was upset in the Sweet Sixteen, and only because someone knocked at the door.

My dog didn’t pick Syracuse to go to the national championship game several years ago only to lose first round. He’s smarter than the average sports fan.

He’s never professed his knowledge about college basketball only to never win money in a tournament pool. He hasn’t lost hundreds of dollars over the years.

This year, he’ll just turn his head away from the TV and start napping through it all again. The only breaks from his concentration will be occasional grunts or screams from his master and the ever-present “potty breaks” they both need.

Yes, the dog days of winter have arrived.

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Drew Harris is a senior in journalism and mass communication and political science from Peosta.