Alan Richman takes a bite out of the Big Apple with his two Welsh corgis in tow

Accusations that I was improperly treating my dogs first arose at a Manhattan cocktail party, where restaurateur Tony May noticed me rushing out and asked if I was late for a dinner reservation. "Nope," I barked, gulping a glass of the same exclusive mountain-spring water I buy for my dogs. "Got to get home. Dogs are alone. They're bored, unhappy."

May gently placed a hand on my arm and looked at me quizzically, the way Italians who have difficulty understanding Americans sometimes do. "You're running to take care of your dogs," he said. "Aren't your dogs supposed to take care of you?"

My wife, Lettie, and I have two Pembroke Welsh corgis. Sophie, the female, is 11 and somewhat disdainful, which is permissible at her age. Rudy, the male, is 2 and worships every living creature, especially Sophie, who ignores him. There is nothing useful about them. In a dog show—not that they have the manners to be in one—they would be classified as herding dogs. Yet they have no practical instincts. They do not warm me with their bodies when Canadian winds howl, or drag me to safety when runaway tractor-trailers bear down upon me. They wouldn't snarl at strangers demanding my wallet—not that they don't have excellent teeth, considering what we spend on doggie dental care. Nothing they have accomplished reminds me of Lassie or Rin Tin Tin.

They do, however, communicate beautifully. Their most recent demand was for a vacation.

Not all creatures are able to express such needs; tropical fish, for example, cannot. But dogs—and here I mean pampered American house pets—have their ways. Rudy informs me of his discontent by eating my English loafers. (He prefers them glove-soft.) Sophie hides under furniture, so I must slither on my belly, like the snake I have become in her eyes, in order to drag her out.

The needs of dogs are occasionally compared to those of small children, but my dogs do not require quality time. They want quantity time. That's because they are able to do rudimentary algebra. The formula: more time = more cookies. So when they began acting up recently, I understood that they wanted additional dining opportunities. I'm always for spending holiday time that way, although my wife has different interests. She takes pleasure in art galleries, which neither the dogs nor I enjoy. I find contemporary art boring, and the dogs find polished wooden floors slippery. She meanders into dusty bookstores that make the three of us sneeze. All four of us love ice cream, so we have that in common.

The dogs and I also like looking at women; my wife does not. Corgis quickly learn that random females, age three and up, are eager to pay attention to them. My experience with women I meet by chance is quite the opposite, which doesn't mean I can't remain hopeful.

We are going to Manhattan. I have phoned a dozen of the classiest hotels to determine which are most eager to have us. I pick The Lowell, a small hotel on the Upper East Side. The reservationist says that they accept dogs under 20 pounds. I explain that my two corgis are a little over 25 pounds and she replies, "We wouldn't be weighing them, to be honest. We're very dog friendly." I'm also judging on pet amenities, and she describes The Lowell's as "bowls, little things like that." What I (and presumably the dogs) really like is that The Lowell has a first-rate steak house, the Post House, attached and available for room service. I also pick the Soho Grand, a downtown hotel owned by Hartz Mountain, purveyors of pet food. The reservationist promises "bowls, a room-service pet menu, pillows, and even leashes." The concierge is enthusiastic about the vast amounts of greenery and romping areas nearby. She regales me with the culinary wonders of The Yard, an outdoor dining area where guests can enjoy grilled food while their noble pets sit contentedly by their side.