Let’s talk about pizza.

Not haute cuisine. Not microfoam cappuccinos or farm-to-table kale. Just good old-fashioned, cheesy, slightly greasy, possibly folded-in-half New York-style pizza. The real universal food  or as I like to call it, “the one thing that unites my household, my dogs, and every college campus tour I’ve been on lately.”

Seriously, have you noticed? Every town has pizza. Tiny mountain hamlets, beach towns, city corners, gas stations that shouldn’t have ovens but somehow do. Pizza is everywhere. It’s democracy in edible form. Round or square, thin crust or thick, dollar slice or artisanal sourdough base, pizza doesn’t judge. It shows up, fills you up, and still tastes decent three hours later when eaten cold, in shame, over the sink.

And it’s not just humans who are smitten.

Let’s talk about my dogs. Three very different personalities, one shared obsession: pizza.

My big dog.  Oh, bless his enthusiastic soul believes every slice in someone’s hand is meant for him. If you’re standing within a five-foot radius holding pizza, he assumes it’s a ceremonial offering. He doesn’t wait for an invitation. He lunges with joy. He steals. And not sneakily. He does so brazenly, like a carb-craving raccoon in a fur coat. The audacity is strong.

Then there’s my middle pup. Normally, he treats all human food with deep suspicion. He requires a taste test for everything. A little morsel placed carefully in his dish, followed by an extended sniff, maybe a side-eye, and then a dramatic pause before the verdict. But pizza? No testing. No preamble. He’s all in. It’s the only food that skips his suspicious bouncer routine and gets ushered into the VIP lounge of his mouth.

And the little one? The ten-pounder with the appetite of a linebacker? He can inhale a slice four times the size of his own head. No hesitation. No shame. No physics. Just vibes.

Honestly, if they could speak, they’d vote for pizza to be president. And it would probably win.

Even my teen son, in the throes of major life decisions like college, is using pizza availability as a critical part of his assessment matrix. “They have a pizza bar in the dining hall,” he reported about one school with reverence, like he’d found the Holy Grail covered in pepperoni. Forget the endowment. Forget Nobel laureates. Show me your pizza station and I’ll show you where he’s applying early decision.

So yes, pizza may be simple. Affordable. Leftover-friendly. But it’s also something more. It’s a warm, gooey reminder that joy doesn’t need to be complicated. It just needs cheese. And maybe a crust that can handle toppings like dignity handles pressure.

And if the college dining hall slices happen to be fortified with vitamins? Well, that’s just bonus nutrients for our next generation of dreamers and dog-lovers.