It Doesn't Take A Dog-Lover to Enjoy Love At First Bark

Our 100-pound bundle of canine love, Marvin the Dog, has always made us look good.

After all, he was a rescued dog, and a dog who, at the time, had some fairly high-needs, as well.

So, without us, he'd have ended up dead or at the losing end of a dog-fight.

At least, that's what we've always told ourselves.

But after reading Julie Klam's Love at First Bark, I feel a bit shamed that I've taken so much pride in what could be described as a fairly easy animal rescue, in light of the tales Klam tells, which involve, in no particular order, uncontrollable poop and pee in your bed, cab rides in the middle of Manhattan with an empathetic pit bull, and escapades chasing a dog with a jar on it's head through the swamps of Louisiana.
Our Marvin the Dog has nothing on Klam's pack.

And, yet, as a dog-lover, or, heck, as a humane person, I can relate to every word scribbled by Klam about her various experiences with dogs who, whether they knew it or not, tapped into the very soul and touched the author when she needed it the most.

The book reminds me of every tight embrace I've wrapped around my dogs slouchy, big neck after receiving a piece of heart-breaking news, and every drooling chin he's placed on my lap when I needed to do nothing more than pat his gentle, big head.

I could almost feel how Klam felt when Morris the Pit Bull placed his paws on her shoulders and taught her to not sweat the small stuff and instead focus on the big thing what was screaming for her attention; at the time, her marriage.

I know just what she was going through as she fought for Clementine, the dog with so many physical, mental and emotional issues that no one in their right mind would take her on. Until you realized she had the personality of a cheese-ball saint.

And I laughed with her as she, and others like her, chased Jarhead around New Orleans in an attempt to rescue him, while the rest of the world was caught up in the area's demise after Hurricane Katrina and the wonky ways of FEMA.

Klam's point, in it all, is that when you step back and listen to those around you who aren't dragged down by the modern conveniences, pressures, and tangents that society heaps on today's individuals, you can hear, and learn, what's really important.

Right out of the mouths of dogs.

***

The unfortunate part about Love At First Bark is that you expect more of a collection.

For someone like Klam, a true dog-lover and someone so entrenched in her rescue efforts you're surprised it's not her full-time job, you just expect more. More stories. More anecdotes. More dogs.

Still, what there was? I loved.

And I'm willing to bet others did, too.

To check out what other bloggers had to say about Love At First Bark, head on over to the BlogHer Book Club discussion.

***

This was a paid review for BlogHer Book Club, but the opinions expressed are my own.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

He'll Be An Only Child

From the second I pushed Ella into this world, I knew I'd do it again.

If possible, I'd have more kids. No question in my mind.

But not only because I wanted to. It was more because I really, truly don't want her to grow up as an only child.

I loved having siblings. You learn so much from brothers and sisters as you go through life's milestones with them.

I didn't want to deprive Ella of that.

And, before I had Ella, I didn't want to deprive Marvin the Dog of that, either.

But stuff happens.

Things change.

Like on Monday, when my good friend here went into labor, and on her way to the hospital, asked if I could go get her dog and bring him to our house to take care of while she was having, and recovering from having, her baby.

I agreed immediately. After all, she did the same for me when my water broke unexpectedly.

Plus, her dog is a perfectly pleasant lab who is the same size as Marvin, and, therefore, a perfectly suited playmate for him.

They get along wonderfully.

I wasn't worried at all.

Initially, really, it was a sweet, sweet sight when I saw them both lay beside Ella on her play-mat in guard-dog positions, ready to defend the little pint-sized human as if by instinct.

Then, holding Ella, I told her we were going to get in our stroller and go for a "walk."

I'd barely gotten the W-word out before both dogs swarmed me.

It was all I could do to hold the baby up and disentangle my legs from the swarm of excited dog muzzles and tails whipping about me.

Later that day, I tried making dinner with all three of my charges in tow.

Ella was in her bouncy sweat on the floor, the dogs on either side of her. I was actually quite pleased, as the pups were entertaining Ella during her normally fussy part of the day.

Then, I un-wrapped the beef for our dinner.

Sweet heavens.

You'd have thought I had the Holy Grail.

I couldn't see Ella, squealing away, as the two puppy tails waved about her at rapid speed.

Luckily, she found it entertaining.

But I was not so amused when they got into the diaper pail.

Picture it: Dirty cloth diapers strewn about everywhere. I won't even talk about how fun it was to clean that up with a crying baby in tow.

Not to mention the fact, like any good set of fraternal twins, the two dogs never wanted to eat, pee, or play at the same time.

Which meant I had three dependents with me - one wanting to eat, one wanting to play, and one desperately about to tee-tee himself - at all times.

Ella had to hang onto my boob for dear life a few times while I leashed up a dog to take him outside to pee while batting at the other dog to stay in the house with my foot.

Still, it was all going relatively well.

Until yesterday morning.

At 5:45 a.m.

Ella and I were both sleeping peacefully in our bed and had been for about 30 minutes since her last feeding.

When, unbeknownst to me, some silent, still-to-this-day-invisible intruder decided to break in and attack us.

Or so I'm led to believe.

Because within seconds of each other, both dogs were up on the bed with me, standing at attention around Ella and I, howling at the moon, growling to beat the band, and barking louder than a metal band.

I woke up with just enough time to see Ella's bottom lip quiver before she added her own "Why did I have to wake up?" screams to the din.

I. Was. Furious.

Baby over my shoulder, nursing nightgown askew, I started kicking dogs off my bed and stomping about the house, searching for the supposed intruder, whom I obviously did not find.

Of course, Ella was wide awake by this time, as were the darn dogs, who, once they'd calmed down and realized we weren't on attack, assumed their positions:

One at the door, wanting out to pee. And one at the food bowl, begging to be fed.

Argh.

Suffice it to say that, when it comes to family pets, Marvin is going to be an only child for a long, long time.

***

I'm sure this would be easier if both pets were mine, but honestly, I can't blame the dogs. They are both perfectly sweet animals.

They're just dogs. Being dogs. Which is normally fine.

But not when you have a high-needs infant on your hands, who doesn't like to nap. Which, come to think of it, is quite like her animal friends who are currently both laying underneath my legs while I blog.

Darn dogs. I guess we'll have to keep them.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Sibling Rivalry

I never worried about Marvin the Dog when it came to bringing a baby home.

As my mother-in-law ascertained just last week, "Marvin has the sweetest temperament of any dog I've ever met."

And, really, it's true.

He's extremely non-aggressive and agreeable.

Heck, look what he did with one persistence little boy at the playgroup I hosted last week:
He's a kind soul, that big oaf of a dog of mine.

So it came as no surprise that, when Ella came home, Marvin adjusted right away. He mostly just laid by her swing or pack-n-play or play-mat.

At five days old

Sometimes, I'd catch him dropping his toys right next to her while she played on a blanket on the floor.

And, when she became a bit more alert, he'd stick his head under her play-arch, laying his nose right next to her, and he'd let her bat at him and squeal right in his face.

In the middle of the night, he'd even walk behind me as I paced the house shooshing a fussy newborn.

And the few times she'd wake-up crying in the living room from her bouncy seat, he'd run to get me from the kitchen or bathroom, nudging me and eye-ing the living area's entry way as if to say, "Dude, our baby's crying. Do something."

He's adjusted well, especially when you consider the fact that he's getting significantly less attention and time then he did pre-Ella. His walks are rushed and fewer; I pet him with my feet while nursing instead of giving him a full-body rub-down, and he's now chastised rather than praised when he barks at an imminent threat during nap-time hours.

Having a newborn isn't just hard on us; the dog has struggled, too.

But, until recently, you wouldn't know it.

In fact, while my in-laws were here, we were going on ad nauseum about what an amazing animal he was. How sweet. How loyal. How obedient. How, most of the time, he really never caused problems or did anything wrong.

I mean, a red-blooded American canine had never received such praise.

Then we left for a drive to show them around the military base we live on. We'd been gone all of 30 minutes - a blip when you consider that Marvin can be left alone for an entire day and not be disturbed.

We returned rather quickly to eat lunch, and I went to retrieve the two dozen blueberry-banana muffins I'd baked earlier and left to cool on our counter (something I've done hundreds of times before, mind you.)

Except, I couldn't find them. Or, rather, I couldn't find most of the them.

Four measly, botched muffins - the ones I'd set aside because they hadn't come out of the pan correctly - were still there. The rest?

Gone.

Vanished.

Not a trace left behind.

The big, old stinker.

We quickly ascertained that Marvin had indeed eaten two dozen muffins - wrappers and all - after getting up on our kitchen counter while we were gone, mostly because he was hiding his head under the area rug in shame and refusing to make eye contact with us.

Still, I couldn't believe it.

But then he managed to top himself the next day.

Because, while nursing Ella, I noticed Marvin sitting in front of me, begging.

I had the hubs check his food and water bowl - both of which were full - so I shoo-d him away.

Ten minutes later, while changing Ella's diaper, he did the same thing; he sat at attention and begged.

I, again, shoo-d him away.

Then, he did the same song and dance while I was rocking Ella and putting her down for a nap.

I, frustrated, barely acknowledged him.

But Marvin kept going - bugging me while I washed diapers, made lunch, cleaned up toys, etc.

Until, finally, when I went to get Ella, now awake, from her nap, he followed me into the room and, right next to me, peed. Right on the carpet.

Keep in mind that this dog potty-trained himself as a puppy and never had an accident.

And there he was, peeing, and looking directly at me unabashedly.

I yelled and ran him outside by the collar, where he continued to pee for a good two minutes straight.

The poor guy. He had to go, desperately. And he'd tried to tell me.

But I didn't listen. And I'd completely forgotten the fact that he'd spent the morning at the local dog park, wading in a lake, and - no doubt - swallowing untold amounts of lake water.

I couldn't even believe it.

The once-wise, never-bad dog had acted out twice in 24 hours.

I thought he was rebelling. Acting out in light of his new younger sister.

And then, yesterday, while getting ready for work, I left Ella sleeping in the middle of our king-sized bed.

I was getting dressed and eating my breakfast when I turned around and noticed that, instead of Ella, all I could see in the bed was Marvin.

My giant dog was smack-dab in the middle of our bed. Just laying there like he owned the place.

I freaked out, grabbed him by the collar and started to sling him down.

Then I noticed that, indeed, Ella was still sleeping peacefully. Right behind him.

He'd somehow managed to get in the bed and lay right next to her without so much as setting a toenail on her.

He didn't even tip or disturb her. More than 90 pounds of dog, and he didn't so much as brush her with a whisker.

Which is more than my husband can say, as the last time I left him in the bed alone with her, he managed to put the palm of his hand directly on her face. (This is the primary reason why, when I'm not in the bed, Ella sleeps in the pack-n-play.)

Regardless, it was in that moment that I knew why I loved Marvin.

Because he may be acting out a bit - eating off the counter and pee-ing so close to my foot I'm lucky I didn't get sprayed - but he's a gentle animal who wouldn't hurt a fly.

Or, thankfully, my baby.

***

It goes without saying that, though I know he wouldn't hurt her intentionally, he's not allowed on the bed with Ella. Period.

Luckily, he's a quick study, and I don't think we'll have that problem again.

Wish I could say the same for my husband's flailing hands.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The New Game in Town

I haven't looked at a to-do list in nine days.

Nine long, unplanned, unscheduled, unorganized days.

It's killing me.

Between the breast-feeding and baby gas and the fact that my world has turned upside down (in a good way), I'll admit, I'm not even sure where my day planner is at this point.

Granted, I wouldn't trade any of it for the world. I adore my baby girl, and she's worth every un-productive second.

But, still, it's hard, for this Type-A lady.

Still, I'm trying. I'm gradually hoping to establish some semblance of a schedule. I'm hoping to get something, anything, done every day. Even if it's just one load of laundry. Or a quick spaghetti dinner. Or a blog post.

Yeah, blogging is taking on a whole new flavor these days.

I can't promise I'll be penning witty epitome after witty epitome day after day.

Sometimes, you're probably just going to be reading garbled sentences about the fact that my baby pooped seven times last night and has rendered my right breast almost unrecognizable.

But I will still be here. Almost every day.

For my own sanity, if nothing else.

I will also be reading your blogs.

It may be 3 a.m. I may have a child latched to me while I do so. But, never the less, I will be reading.

I just might not be as frequent with my comments. (Just know I still love you all, OK?)

So, there we are. I'm back. Baby brain aside, Ella and I are ready to blog our little semi-comprehensible hearts out.

Be back tomorrow with more tales of what happens when you realize you haven't worn anything but an open robe and a large incontinence pad for four days.

***

In case you'd like to read something I wrote before my daughter stole my brain, you can find me over at BlogHer Book Club, reviewing their new book, A Discovery of Witches. You can find my review right here. Hope to see you there!

***

And, because I can - because I've waited years to pepper my blog with photos of my child - I give you the newest photo of our new bundle of joy. (And our old, hairier bundle of joy, too.)Marvin and Ella, Take One.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Houston, We Have a Dog Problem

A lot of people stress out about bringing a new baby home to meet their original "babies:" i.e., their pets.

I hold no such fears.

You see, my dog is kind of awesome with kids. Oh, heck, he's kind of awesome with everybody.

He's exuberant and a bit large, but he's seriously the most non-aggressive mammal I've ever met.

This is kind of what he does when babies and kids are around. Unless they're eating. Then he lifts his head up and drools until they drop something.

As I've told you before, I stand a better chance of biting someone than he does.

He's never even nipped at a passing chihuahua or blowing leaf.

He never potties in the house. Never has, actually. And he's perfectly content just to lay at your feet throughout the day, following you slowly into every room of the house.

The reason he's like this, though, is that we haven't set very many rules about personal space with him. Or, rather, we've broken down any and all personal-space barriers that most mammals normally possess.

For instance, we hug him. And kiss him. And, without a second thought, reach our hands into his mouth when we're worried he's gotten something he shouldn't.

We've pulled on his tail. Picked him up. Dressed him in football jerseys. And covered him with so much laundry that he stayed buried (and asleep) for a good two hours.

I'll grab in between his toes. Bathe him. Make him waltz with me. Knock him over. Lay on him. Drag him across the floor by his hindquarters.

And, well, he just takes it.

The dog knows no bounds.

Worse, though, than all of that? Before I was married, I used to let him sleep with me.

He loves to be on soft surfaces, and if I didn't invite him up into my bed before I dozed off, he'd wait until I passed out then surreptitiously sneak into the open side of my queen mattress.

I'd awake to find him stretched under my legs or over my body. Head tucked under my chin. And most of his big old body tucked under the blankets.

It was the wrong thing to do, and I knew it. But I let it go anyway.

He was such a nice dog, I thought. And he was protecting me.

Understandably, the practice continued when I married the hubs. Only this time, it was me, P, and a 100-pound dog sharing a queen-sized bed.

We kept waking up with cricks in our back and stiff legs. We'd kick him off at 3 a.m. only to have him sneak back up around 4 a.m. Occasionally, he'd even position himself just so, head up and feet down, just like we were, and scare the bejeebers out of me by staring at me, dead in the eyes, until I woke up to find his coal-black pupils peering into my very soul.

It had to stop.

So, we did it.

We sleep-trained our own dog.

We bought him a nicer, plusher dog bed, positioned it at the foot of our bed, and, no matter what time he tried to sneak under our covers, we kicked him to the curb and booted his behind out.

After several sleepless weeks, it had worked. He slept on his dog bed in our room, just like that, for almost two years. He never got in our bed again.

And, then, I got pregnant.

And I got really, really sick.

This scared Marvin the Dog to no end. He was a full-on panic attack waiting to happen. Every time I'd puke, he'd whimper. Every time I'd sprint to the toilet, he'd follow.

Most of the time, he would open the bathroom door, if I tried to shut him out, and stare at me worriedly. He even poked his head around the shower curtain once while I was supposed to be bathing but was actually crouched in the tub, wretching my brains out.

The poor guy didn't know what to do.

So, he reverted. Just like a child who refuses to talk after something horrific happens to them, he went back to his old, immature ways.

He started sleeping with me again.

Just looking at this picture makes me sick all over again. Gah. Morning sickness was the worst.

At first, it was only when I was in the bed alone, fighting a bad case of morning sickness during the day or sleeping alone because my husband was working nights.

But then, it grew.

He started getting in bed with me all the time. Even when the hubs was in there.

On the odd night where he didn't start out in our bed, I'd awake later to find him curled at my feet or under my legs. Every. Single. Morning.

Sometimes, I'd even find him under our covers, head on our pillows, at 2 p.m. When neither of us was sleeping or so much as thinking about sleeping. He was just lounging in our bed all by his lonesome self.

Again, you have to admit, it's kind of endearing. I mean, look at the guy:

And no, I don't mean the man. I mean the dog.

But regardless of how cute he is, it's still a huge concern when we're less than a month away from bringing a baby home.

A baby that, it has to be said, will be sleeping with us. At least for the first few months of her life.

My bed is less than 30 days away from containing not one, not two, and not even three sleeping bodies in it.

We're about to have four sleeping bodies in our bed every. single. night.

Now, forget about the fact that I already have to change our sheets more than once a week to deal with the dog hair Marv leaves behind.

And forget about the fact that I no longer remember what it's like to extend my legs fully while I slumber.

Heck, even forget about the fact that our now-king-sized bed feels twin-sized thanks to the fact that we have an over-affectionate part-Great-Dane.

It's simply unacceptable to squeeze four living, breathing bodies into such a tiny space. Especially when one of those living, breathing bodies is going to be waking me up every two hours and figuratively reaching for my boobs.

And, for the record, I am not referring to my husband.

Sigh. I think the time has finally come to re-sleep-train our dog. Thanks to the fact that's Marv's pretty obedient, it shouldn't take me more than a couple weeks.

Of course, the baby is due in a couple weeks.

And it will probably take me right up until my due date to re-inforce Marvin's good behaviors and punish his bad ones.

Which will require me to get up every hour on the hour and boot him out of our bed until our point is made.

So, as you can imagine, I'm totally going to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed when it comes time to push this baby out.

Sigh. This is totally what I get for having a dog that potty-trained himself.

***

The upside is, the hubs and I are already pros at co-sleeping, and we haven't even tried it yet.

I have slept in more uncomfortable positions, thanks to Marvin, than most people contort into in a lifetime.

There is nothing this baby can throw at me that will put a crick in my neck.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

The Litmust Test

One day last December, I was visiting with a group of my friends, when one of them piped up, seemingly out of nowhere.

"You know, I don't trust anyone who doesn't like puppies and babies," she said.

And, as she said it, I couldn't agree more.

Now, you should know, this particular friend does not have a puppy or a baby. But that is not the point.

You don't have to have, or even want, a dog or a child. You just have to like them, she explained.

And the more I thought about it, the more I wholeheartedly agreed with her.

***

Now, granted, I have a dog. And I'm pregnant. It almost goes without saying that I like babies. Even before I was married and ready to have my own, I liked babies.

So, of course, I find these criteria for judging people perfectly acceptable, seeing as how I pass with flying colors.

Still, all the self-gratifying particulars aside, I liked the inherent wisdom behind my friend's rationale.

The Dog-Baby Assessment, if you will, is the perfect litmus test in a world where it's hard to tell the pedophiles from the police-man anymore.

In fact, it can act like some sort of truth serum, especially if you reverse it.

***

Case in point: Marvin, our dog.

The big guy couldn't be anymore passive if he tried.

I've actually seen toddlers yank on his, um, boy parts, with just enough aggression to elicit a lift of his head, a casual glance over his shoulder, and a resigned sigh.

That, my friends, is about as aggressive as he gets.

He exuberantly greets anyone and everyone at my door when they walk in. He attempts to lay down right next to babies and sleep with them. He will literally lean his entire body against your legs for hours on end while you pet him.

Or beat him, for that matter. As long as you're nearby, he's perfectly content.

He trots up to joggers and rolls over at their feet for a belly rub. He noses his head into the hands of complete strangers walking past us. He won't rest until he's sniffed you, licked you, and sat on your feet for several hours.

If I had a dollar for every toddler who's body-slammed him so hard it had to hurt, only to have Marvin open one eye and gaze at the kid before falling back to sleep, I'd be a rich woman.

He literally loves everyone.

The lawn guys. The maintenance guys. The post-man. Even if they ring the door-bell - which always causes him to bark - he will wriggle about in attempt to love on them once the door is open.

But then, there's a day like yesterday.

When a new lawn guy was mowing our yard.

I was emptying things out of my car while Marvin passively stood next to me. I didn't think much of it. Marvin loves the lawn guys.

Then, all of sudden, the new lawn guy moved into his line of vision, and Marvin lost it.

He was baring his teeth; he was growling; his hair stood on end, and he was barking all out.

Within seconds, he lunged for the guy.

The dog that would allow you to all but torture him lunged at a man on a riding lawn-mower like he had a death wish. In the four and half years we've had him, I've never seen him show even an iota of that aggression.

Normally, men, women, and children - of all races, sizes, and ethnic backgrounds - have come in and out of our home. And he loves them all.

This guy mowed two feet of our lawn, and I swear, if I hadn't caught Marv around the torso, he'd have bitten the guy's face off.

It took all my strength to drag Marvin back into the house. But I did manage to get a quick peek at the lawn guy before closing my door.

And, you know, I can't really explain it, but the man creeped me out. He was sneering at me. In a way I've never been sneered at before. And it wasn't because my dog had barked at him, either. I could tell the sneer had nothing to do with that. It was an expression that meant something else, something I couldn't decipher. But it wasn't good.

And Marvin knew it.

Once in the house, he raced around growling and barking at all three of our entrances, a dog possessed.

He wouldn't let me go near a doorway without pushing himself in between me and the entry.

I had never, in my life, seen him like this.

It wasn't until the man had left our street entirely that the darn dog finally calmed the heck down.

Luckily, it didn't take that long for me to figure out the message, the whole idea behind what Marvin had been trying to tell me.

That man? The new lawn guy? He was bad news.

I don't know why. But I'd bet money on the fact that that guy was shadier than Lindsey Lohan.

I locked all my doors and windows, and I petted Marvin approvingly.

I didn't need anymore proof.

If my dim-witted, loves-everyone dog can sense it, that guy was up to no good, and I had no intentions of going anywhere near him again.

***

I probably wouldn't have figured that out without my dog's help. After all, I was busy unloading the car. I was preoccupied with other thoughts. And I tend to trust almost anyone that comes across my path.

Plus, I've been around this world of ours for a while. I know you can't judge a book by it's cover, and, while some people are a little "off," I know full-well this doesn't make them bad people.

In other words, thanks to my 26 years of living, my "spidey" senses have been dulled.

But Marvin's? Sweet, innocent Marvin, who lives to be petted and walked and cuddled by the world?

His senses are razor sharp, it seems.

Much like a baby's, I'd reckon.

Ever seen a perfectly happy baby cry and cry and cry and cry around a certain person? Ever seen an outgoing toddler shy away from some seemingly friendly neighbor?

Little kids, like dogs, have great radars.

If their behavior shifts - they become clingy when they normally aren't, or they freak out in situations they're normally fine in - I have to think, "What's wrong here? What's going on that I can't sense?"

Truth is, I'd trust a 2 year old more than I'd trust myself in those situations.

Their intuition hasn't been dulled by years of interaction. Their inner compass hasn't been mottled by a world gone mad.

If a baby really, truly doesn't like you, I'm pretty sure I won't like you, either.

Another blog-friend of mine, Jess, was just talking about this last week. She's taught her kids to trust that instinct, that "spidey" sense.

It's a safety mechanism, after all. If don't teach our kids to listen to that inner guide, we're essentially dulling their ability to keep themselves safe.

It makes, in essence, perfect sense. And it ties in directly with what my friend was saying months before.

Puppies and babies are inherently sweet, innocent creatures. They can sense when someone's not being genuine.

And, therefore, if you shy away from babies and puppies, under the auspices that you "don't do kids" or "hate animals," I'm going to raise an eyebrow. I might even, dare I say, judge you.

Or at least keep myself and my child a little farther away from you then I did before.

When it comes down to it, I'll put my trust in the innocence of the world. In the sweet, unadulterated minds and instincts of children and animals who want nothing more than to love and be loved.

I'll trust innocence any day of the week.

***

Of course, this has to be taken with a fair bit of reason.

Just because you don't want my dog to lick you doesn't mean I don't trust you.

In fact, if he goes in to lick you, I'll probably scold him.

But the fact is, if he even wants to lick you, you're probably a pretty decent person. As our most people. After all, Marvin wants to lick most people.

And the same goes for my baby.

You don't have to coo all over her or attempt to pick her up for me to trust you. Heck, if she cries around you a bit, I'm not going to give you a hairy stare or anything. After all, babies cry.

But if there's something inconsolable and weird in either my dog's or my child's behavior, I think that, as an adult, I have to listen to it. It holds merit, in my opinion.

I'm over the idea that we, as adults, have to train up certain things in kids.

Children are born with certain God-given abilities, and, if anything, we adults do more to squelch those than promote them.

Just because they're young, does not mean they're any less capable. And just because my dog is a canine, does not make him stupid.

In fact, we could do well to follow in their foot-steps.

Listen to our guts. Follow our hearts. Use caution when our "spidey" senses tingle for unexplained reasons.

After all, we were all children once. We had those same God-given abilities we see in our kids now.

It's just a little bit harder to get in touch with them these days.

So, thank God we have puppies and babies to warn us. To help us out when our own instincts fail.

It may seem weird, but I think that those seen as the least capable in our society, probably hold the key to really deciphering the evil in our world.

They are the litmus test.

Now if we would just listen to them.

***

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

My Dog Ate My Blog Post

Yesterday was a really good day.

My appointment at the midwives' office went off without a hitch; I got my hair cut. I managed to stock up on some much-needed birthing materials, and my husband was a happy camper when he got home from work.

I made a quick quiche for dinner; we ate, and then I took off for my favorite 90 minutes of the week: pre-natal yoga.

It was blissful. I managed to unload some weight and strain from my lower back; my hips loosened. I felt great.

I walked into my house floating on cloud nine. I had every intention to sit down and write out a well-thought-out blog post.

I was, in a word, zen.

Then, I saw it.

On the kitchen floor. Out onto the carpet. By the entryway. Under the cabinets. In front of the T.V. On the coffee table.

Egg shells, egg shells, egg shells.

Everywhere. Egg shells.

Smashed into floors and scattered about haphazardly.

I was shocked. And awed.

And in an instant, I realized the only thing missing from the picture was the culprit.

After all, any other normal time I come strolling through my front door, he's there.

Tall a-wagging. Tongue lolling. Overjoyed to see me.

But now, it was quiet. Not a jingle of a tag or a scamper of a paw.

Nothing.

Not until I broke the silence by screaming very inelegantly at the top of my lungs, "MARVIN!"

Somebody was going to pay for this.

After the world's longest pause, a big black nose peeked around the corner of the kitchen. Followed by two brown eyes. Followed by a pair of saggy lip-jowls from which hung - and I couldn't even make this up - yet another eggshell.

I screamed and lunged.

He cowered and shook.

And then the great struggle between pregnant woman and 90-pound dog commenced as I dragged him across the linoleum toward the half-emptied trash can, just so I could stick his sad nose right in it and repeatedly scream "NONONONONONO BAD DOG!" directly into is pitiful, repentant eyes.

So much for being zen.

Because it took me 30 minutes to pick egg shells out of the carpet and another 20 minutes to vacuum and sweep all the floors.

Meanwhile, the culprit sat with his nose buried under the entryway rug, looking shame-faced and avoiding eye contact with me.

I was hopping mad, cursing my husband, who just forgot to take out the trash before heading back to work. Swearing at my quiche, which had required me to use almost a dozen eggs and, thus, a dozen egg shells. Shaking my fist at my trash can, which never seems to quite hold enough.

And, of course, glaring at Marvin himself, who cannot seem to withhold the urge to go on a routine monthly bender, wherein he gorges himself on the contents of our trashcan like he's never eaten a day in his life. Like I didn't make him his own personal plate of scrambled eggs just hours before.

All my hard work at relaxing had flown right out the window.

I was on a war path.

Finally, though, the mess was cleaned up. The dog had been properly disciplined. And I sat down to write my pre-arranged blog post.

And, then, it hit me.

Marvin had eaten egg shells. Several egg shells. Several sharp, pointy egg shells.

And just like that, I flipped.

I yelled, "MY BABY!" and ran for him, prying open his jaws to see if he had any left. Wondering if I should make him vomit them up. Worried that as I'd cleaned, the little shards were cutting up his esophagus and small intestines and posing a threat to his digestive tract forever.

I then spent the next 75 minutes Googling "dog ate numerous egg shells" and "Can dogs get salmonella poisoning from raw eggs?"

I used up all my prime blogging time thinking up multiple ways Marvin was going to meet his untimely death by eating said eggshells, crying over the fact that my last words to him might very well be "NONONONONONO BAD DOG!" and a resounding slap on the nose.

Which is exactly why you're reading this. So you can report me to PETA post-haste.

And because I had no time left to write out my previously well-thought-out blog post because I was too busy ushering Marvin into our bed and curling around his big old dog body, listening to his breathing in case I heard a wheeze, a catch, or some other whimper that may relay the fact that the eggshells were delivering their nasty blow.

I'm never making quiche again.

***

Happy Friday, everyone!

My Favorite Child

Marvin the Dog has become my new pregnancy buddy.

He follows me around like, for lack of a better metaphor, a lost puppy.

He's by my side 24-7, sniffing me, looking inquiringly around the corner at me when I sit down unexpectedly, or laying at my feet or by my side.

He knocked over a table just last week trying to lay down in the infinitely small crack between a chair I was sitting in and the wall.

The poor thing's a mess with worry.

But he's also the most flexible, easygoing thing in my life right now.

He's developed the bladder of an elephant, especially on the days where our trips outdoors are few and far between because of all my puking.

He only eats at night-time, as the hubs is the only person who doesn't dry-heave trying to scoop food into his bowl.

And, ever since morning sickness hit, he's been sidling up to me while I'm sitting on the bathroom floor, hugging the toilet. He simply lays his big, old head on one of my thighs the entire time I hurl.

When I'm done, he licks my tears away. (Every time I've ever vomited in my life, my eyes massively well up. It's weird.)

He's even taken to snuggling up in bed next to me on my worst days - a habit we broke him off almost two years ago.
So for this and for many other reasons, I've taken to patting him on the head lately, after a long bout in the bathroom, and stating, "This, Marvin, is exactly why you will always be my favorite child."

There is something to be said for not having to carry around our fur babies via the womb.

And, still ridden with general pregnancy sickness as I enter my second trimester, I am appreciating more and more the beauty of raising my first-born - my dog.

He's never made me vomit. He's never made me gain weight. He's never left me bloated, constipated, and devoid of all common sense.

He's an angel, that dog of mine.

Note that now, four years after puppy-hood, I have forgotten the couch he ate, the books he tore, and the 18 pairs of shoes I'll never get back after he was through with them. Like pregnancy, I'm sure this is part of a perfect design in dog-raising, so that, one day, I'll be able to own another puppy again, without beating him for tearing up our new ottoman.

Still, without a doubt, right now, Marvin is winning heavily in the battle between him and his new plum-sized sister or brother.*

Which is why, out and doing some much-needed Christmas shopping this weekend, I spotted something I couldn't come home without.

A little token to show exactly how important this pup is to me:
That's right, my friends.

Marvin has made the tree.
I actually took a gold calligraphy pen to a black lab ornament I found. Unfortunately, they don't make ornaments specific enough for the three people this side of the equator who own dark brindle, Great-Dane-lab mixes.

So, before even a single photo of our new little one makes its way into a popsicle-stick ornament or a cute little "Baby's First Christmas" frame, Marvin was there.

A willing and loyal mutt, who tolerates my profuse vomiting.

He's a pregnant woman's best friend.

He definitely deserved to make the tree.

***

*Of course, I'm kidding. This baby is oh-so wanted. And, though I love him immensely, Marvin is indeed just my dog. But before I even had my marriage, I had Marvin, and he is very dear to me. So while this new baby is, of course, going to outshine him in the grand scheme of things, there will always be a special place in my heart for my first-born;)

Happy Monday, everyone!

To My Dog

Oh, sweet Marvin.

Today, you are 4 years old.

I can't believe it, but you, my sweet puppy dog, are almost middle-aged.

Three-and-a-half years ago, I had no idea we'd get to this point: The point where you no longer need to be crate trained, the point where you stay off all our furniture, the point where you don't chew every book on my bookshelf up to smithereens.

You've come so far, Sweet Moo*.

Baby Marvy*

You and I have survived marrying your father, your obsessive need to sleep directly on top of me, and your incessant amounts of drool.

I remember when we didn't even know what you were and how big you'd get.

He was actually that small once!

And now, Momita*, now that we know your full, huge, Great-Dane-lab-mix potential, I'm so glad your genetic origins remained a mystery to me for the first year of your life.

Marvin used to be smaller than a Boston terrier!

Because I'd have been too afraid of your size to adopt you, and then I'd never have experienced all the other great things about having a big galumph of a dog like you in my home.

The sweet jowls you smile with, the pretty brindle coat that strangers marvel at, the fact that you are such a gentle giant but won't quit until you've licked any baby within a five-mile radius - it makes up everything I love about you and almost missed out on.
And though we had our bad spells - the chewing-up-a-couch phase of 2007, the tick infestation of 2008, and the doggie-stomach-virus plague of 2009 - you've managed to come out on top, in my heart and in our home.

You still shed a ton, but we just vacuum more. You drool everywhere, but we just wipe it up. And, still, no matter what command we give, you exuberantly attempt to shake hands with one or both of your paws, hoping and praying for a treat, and, better yet, our undying love and affection - which, you know, you already have.

Turns out, we adore you, Momo-sahn*, more than we ever knew we could.

Your sweet temperament and your strong desire to be right in the middle of all the love and action has given us quite laugh a time or two. And we count ourselves simply lucky that we got a dog who would sooner become a cat than bite a human being, even little human beings who hug you hard, yank on your tale, attempt to ride you, and blatantly stick their little hands in your mouth for all the world to see.
Granted, you're a little odd - heck, you're downright weird at times. For a dog, anyways.

After all, you think you can drive.
And you're inordinately obsessed with chew toys.
And, hey, sometimes, even we wonder if you have some kind of supernatural doggie powers.
But then you manage to scare yourself by passing gas, and we once again realize that you're just a plain, old, dumb mutt, Momie*.

But a plain, old, dumb mutt that we love to pieces.

So Happy Birthday to my Marvala*.

May your day be filled with many treats and walks and sloppy kisses - all your favorite things.

And may you always remember that, no matter what or who comes along in in this next year, you'll always be my first-born, my Momala*, my one and only Shmoopie.*

I love you, Marv.*

Love, Momma

***

*These are all nicknames I actually call Marvin on any given day. It's no wonder he has a bit of an identity crisis.

Happy Weekend, everybody!

Obsessed Much?

Marvin the Dog likes his chew toys.

More specifically, he likes to eat his chew toys.

For instance, say I find a bargain-basement deal on a squeaky Frisbee. Upon bringing it home, Marvin will quickly proceed, over several days, weeks, or months, to systematically tear off little bits of said squeaky Frisbee and spit them out into a little pile of toy remnants he enjoys tormenting me and my vacuum-loving ways with.

This is precisely why I don't buy him that many toys. They normally give him no more than a week's worth of enjoyment.

And, not sure if you've heard, but dog toys are expensive. We've bought him a few hard, plastic toys and balls he can't destroy, and those are his constants.
But the weak-willed chew toys? The chew toys he can tear apart in 7 seconds flat? Those are a special treat.

Which is why Tuesday was such a big day. Because I spent an entire $3.67 on a rather flimsy, blue, plastic, angular, squeaky bone for Marvin the Dog.

I figured he was such a good dog, he deserved it.

Plus, I gave the bone a good 18 minutes. Eighteen minutes, and that sucker was totally going to meet it's Maker.

I like making these kinds of bets with myself. It keeps my days interesting.

Anyways, as I unloaded groceries, I wasn't surprised to feel a cold, wet nose pressed up against my hip. Marvin always knows when one of the 28 grocery bags I've brought in contains something for him.

He was so excited he could barely stand it. His puppy face was panting; his tongue was lolling. He could taste the glory of deconstructing a plastic toy before the night was up.

So, quickly, I searched through the bags and relinquished his toy. He gingerly took it from my hand and scampered away.

All was back to normal.

Until five minutes later, when I heard this:

Please ignore my dog-mommy voice. It's annoying. I know. I'm sorry.

Did you hear the whining? The incessant, pathetic whimpering? The puppy yelps that seem to say, "Momma, I love dis toy! Why you never give me toys like dis one before?" (Yes, Marvin speaks like a toddler in my mind.)

Honestly, the whimpering was loud. Louder than it comes across on the tape. And obsessive. And entirely consistent.

Yes, it lasted. It lasted for an entire 3.5 hours.

Seriously, what you hear in that video - the whimpering, the nuzzling, the ridiculous toy-obsessing - that all happened for an entire afternoon.

While I was in the room.

While I was out of the room.

While I blogged.

While I cooked.

While I did laundry.

While I took a shower.

It went on and on and on. Marvin just kept on crowing.

It was totally weird. And totally hilarious.

It lasted so long, I grew rather used to it. I stopped even noticing his whimpering.

Until, finally, it stopped. Silence once again fell upon my house, and I realized Marvin the Dog was nowhere to be found.

Odd, I thought. Perhaps he's finally set about to destroying his new toy. Not that he didn't love the thing, but dogs will be dogs. And my old dog was pretty resistant to learning any new tricks.

So, I searched around, figuring I'd see the toy carnage before I'd see Marvin. I expected to stumble upon a path of toy crumbs leading me to the site of the massacre. I assumed it was going to be like Texas Chainsaw up in there.

But not a piece of plastic was to be found. Instead, I stumbled into our back office, and found an entirely different kind of movie scene:

Obligatory ugly Blackberry photo

Obsessed much?

***

Happy Thursday everybody!

A Little Follow-Through

Sometimes, I feel like I leave you all hanging around here.

I bring up an issue, rant and rave, and then never tell you what becomes of it.

Case in point: The Saga Of the Dryer With No On-Off Knob.

Lest we forget my emotional breakdown about the dryer my husband bought me when we moved, which lacked a knob with which I could turn on the apparatus, and thus, required me to use a wrench every time I wanted to dry a load of wet laundry, here's the whole story.

However, my friends, you should now know that the knob problem is no more. Because, as of just last week, I can now turn my dryer on and off without the use of a toolbox.

We are living in the lap of luxury around here.

My husband took a field trip to Ace Hardware last weekend and purchased a new, generic knob. Which, praise God, worked.

He really spoils me, that man of mine.

To celebrate, I lit a small fire and charred the aforementioned "Dryer Wrench."

***

Still, not everything is working around here as it should be.

Remember my broken Blackberry? The one I was toting around in a plastic bag because I refused to go get it fixed it?

Yeah, well, turns out, I did go get it fixed a while back.

But, then, the next day, I dropped it again and cracked the screen right down the middle.

That was a month ago.

And, yes, it is still sporting that crack today. Because I'm just classy like that.

But tonight, my husband is taking me to the cell phone store and finally replacing the broken Blackberry, as our plan is up, and we can now get the new phone for, basically, free (with a darned two-year renewal of course. Honestly, I really think these cell phone companies are the spawn of Satan. I hate signing my life away to them two years at a time.)

Still, in the end, it was totally worth it to walk around with a broken phone for the last several months. After all, we saved a good $100.

Because, when it comes down to it, we're cheap. Or, as I like to say, frugally thrifty. Just because it sounds classier.

***

On a more social note, I am, in fact, being more social.

Despite my earlier whining about not knowing a soul around here, I have met several wonderful friends now, some with children and some without.

And, honestly, I've been doing a happy, "Thank the Lord" dance every time I think about it.

I've gone shopping with them; I've had dinners out with them; I've driven to the town over to help a friend pick up her broken-down car with them.

We text and chat and fold our laundry in groups. (I'm not kidding. I was invited to a "laundry party" just this week.)

Be still my beating heart. I have Navy-wife girlfriends!

***

At this point in time, my husband would like to interrupt this regularly scheduled blog post to tell you all that the "other woman" currently in our marriage - his new flat-screen T.V. - is not actually a full 60-inches in width, as I may have intimated in a previous post. It's just more than 50 inches across.

I'm sure you all feel better now that that's been rectified.

***

And, last but not least, I hope you all remember how we learned our beloved Marvin the Dog suddenly developed ESP when faced with various torture methods, such as a bath.

Well, apparently, his genius continues to manifest, much to my amazement.

Because just a few days ago, I was unloading groceries, when I realized I couldn't find Marvin.

Figuring he'd gone for a frolic in the front yard, via the open front door, I walked outside and into our carport.

And there, I found this:
Apparently, my dog now thinks he can drive.

Godspeed, Marvin. Godspeed.

***

Hope you all have a wonderful weekend! And don't forget to enter my bracelet giveaway! This weekend is your last chance!

The Mind-Reading Beast

I've owned Marvin the Dog for more than three years.
And in all the years I've known and loved the big mutt, I've never thought he had much going on between his big, old floppy ears.

Plainly put, he's a little bit dumb, that puppy of mine.

I know, I know. I'm a horrible doggy mommy. I just called my one and only child stupid.

But the thing is, he is. He absolutely, positively is.

Take, for instance, his reaction to his bodily functions:

The dog farts/toots/passes wind, then startles himself with it, causing him to turn around and see what/where that noise came from.

Yes, that's right. My dog actually scares himself with his own farts.

Not to mention that he also scares himself by standing in the direct line of the vacuum and venturing anywhere near large garbage bags, chihuahuas, crying babies, folded down metal futons, fluttering magazines, mommies pushing strollers, Chinese take-out, laser lights, and wilted lettuce.

I know this because, when any of the above happens anywhere near him, he either a) barks, b) whimpers, c) hides between my legs, d) shakes violently, or e) all of the above.

If he had eyesight good enough to spot it, Marvin the Dog would be scared of his own shadow.

Not to mention the fact that his only trick is to "shake" hands, which he also does if you ask him to "sit," "stay," "lie down," "roll over," or "speak" - all tricks he learned at one time or another.

But no.

His urge to shake hands with you has him so overwhelmed that upon getting any and all commands, he begins to shake both hands in the air violently, as if he's attempting to swim. In a seated position.

Dunce cap? Party of one?

That's my Marvin.

Thank goodness he's pretty and love-able and patient as all get out.

Because otherwise, the poor pup would have nothing going for him.

Or so I thought.

Because, just this past Sunday, Marvin possessed an intelligence that I've not seen among most human beings...

Now, to preface this story, it has to be said, Marvin the Dog may be quite the chicken. But he's scared of nothing more than the B-word.

Yes, that's right. Dare you utter the dreaded term "bath" in his presence, and he's gone. He'll climb the walls to get away from you, the mere mention of "bath" sets him off just that much.

So, to prevent sheer panic on Bath Day, the hubs and I have taken to treating Marv like a hyper-active toddler and spelling all words in his presence.

"Babe, today, I'm going to give the D-O-G a B-A-T-H because he's D-I-R-T-Y."

But the deceit doesn't end there.

Because then, like any good toddler, Marvin can sense the unspoken signs, as well.

So, to cope with that, we've developed a system wherein one of us grabs him and walks him outside, just like he's about to go on the average, everyday stroll - a favorite pastime of his.

Meanwhile, the other spouse, seeing the dog-empty house as the opportune time, makes a mad-dash about, grabbing the towels, the dog shampoo, the flea-and-tick medicine, and the puppy brush.

By the time Marvin sees one parent emerging from the house ensconced in bath gear, it's too late for the poor thing to make his escape, and he just tucks his tail between his leg and takes it like a man. (Shaking all the while, mind you.)

It's worked for years. In fact, it's worked so well that I managed to do it by myself while my husband was away. Marvin and I never missed a bath.

Until Sunday, when my husband, after carefully spelling out the game plan for the B-A-T-H, decided he'd grab Marvin and take him outside while I went around the house grabbing his bath buddies for his first bath in our South Carolina home.

So, the hubs got the dog leash - a surefire sign that Marvin is about to get a walk and a guaranteed trick to get him running at full speed toward you.

But, this time, it didn't work.

Marvin sat in the living room, avoiding eye contact with the hubs.

So, then, the hubs coaxed him, using his "Come here, buddy!" voice and a treat in hand.

Nothing. Nada. Marvin wouldn't budge.

Finding it a little odd, but not totally giving up, the hubs came into the living room, where Marvin had remained sitting at my feet.

After all, Marvin is technically "my dog," meaning he'll heed my call and follow me around the house all day long over his dad almost any day. He goes to bed when I do, eats when I do, sits in each room as I do. He follows behind me as I clean, cook, and blog. And, if I remain in one place long enough, he promptly lays down at my feet there, too.

He's my baby.

So, the hubs, knowing this, went into the living room, stood by me, and beckoned. I got up and joined in, trying to lend the old guy support.

But still, nothing.

Marvin wasn't going anywhere.

In fact, he wasn't even looking at us. And his head was down and his ears were back, and - yes, there it was - he was beginning to shake.

It was as if he knew.

It's as if he had picked up on our clean-dog thoughts or something that very morning.

Still, not one to bestow psychic abilities on our idiot dog, we wouldn't take "No" for an answer.

So, using my stern "Mommy Dog Voice," I grabbed Marv by the collar and said seriously, "Come! Outside!"

But, still, he made no attempt to acquiesce and come along.

In fact, instead, he braced against me, pushing his paws into the ground so he could remain prone on the carpet.

I tugged harder.

He braced harder.

I tugged firmer.

He braced firmer.

My obedient baby was rebelling.

And, for no good reason, unless he'd somehow learned how to spell in the last month of this life.

So, the hubs, being considerably larger than me, tried next.

Due to sheer strength, he managed to raise 85-pounds of deadweight dog to its feet.

But that was where his success ended.

Because no matter how hard he tugged, he couldn't get Marv to walk through the living room and out the door to the back porch.

His tale was tucked firmly between his legs; his eyes were downcast. His stance was resolute, just like he was staging a Sit-In.

He might as well have been chanting, "Heck no! We won't go!"

That Marv was putting up a good fight.

If it hadn't been so gosh-darn annoying, it would have been cute.

Finally, the hubs lost his patience and garnered enough strength to pick up poor Marv and carry him right out to the hose outside the house.

Where, promptly, the bath commenced, while Marv stood there, forlornly, letting a big, old doggy sigh escape, as if to say, "I put up a good fight, but now, I must surrender. Too many lives have already been lost in this Battle of the Bath."

Which means, thankfully, we won. Our doggy parenting streak is still going strong.

But still, after it was all said in done, the hubs and I were both stumped.

We sat there, trying to figure out how he knew, how he'd figured out, minutes before we pulled out the soap and hose, he was going to get a bath that very afternoon.

We never said the B word. Heck, we never mentioned it's associates - water, clean, hose - either.

So what was it? Had Marvin finally honed any intelligence he originally had, giving him the ability to read minds? Bestowing on him some sort of doggy ESP?

Maybe he'd been playing us for the fool the entire time? Was our dog secretly some kind of savant? A dog in sheep's clothing? A genius of grander proportions than we could have ever thought possible?

Or is he simply a dog who learned how to S-P-E-L-L?

***

I've always thought that dog instinct was so much more well-honed than human instinct. And perhaps that's how he figured this all out. He sensed, in our pheromones and tone of voices, our intent to bathe him.

Or perhaps that's still giving the old dunce to much credit.

The world may never know.

***

Happy Tuesday!

A Good Cry. Or Two.

On Sunday night, at approximately 11:31 p.m., I welled up.

Or, more accurately, cried like a baby.

LOST - our favorite T.V. show in the entire world - was over. After six great seasons, the show wrapped up in a moment filled with love and community.

And I cried and cried.

For the show. For the characters. For the fans everywhere who now have no idea what to do with their Tuesday nights.

I bawled like a baby.

I cried so much that, the next morning, I had puffy-cry eyes. You know the kind. The kind that make you look like you've spent your weekend on some kind of bender.

Because, sans a drop of alcohol, that's what happens when I stay up way past my bed time to watch way more T.V. in one sitting than I have all year.

As good as the show was, it was a bad decision.

Because Monday morning, less than nine hours later, my first class of the day started to trickle in - my seniors - and within seconds of being in my classroom, they started talking about how they only have 1.5 weeks left of school and then they're done.

They're leaving.

They're graduating and very likely never going to see me or each other again.

That, my friends, was all it took.

One little frown from one of my favorite students, and there went the waterworks.

Another student was actually handing me tissues, all while I openly sobbed, "My babies are growing up! And leaving! Where did the time go?"

Just like that, I broke Cardinal Teacher Rule No. 1: Never let them see you cry.

It was embarrassing.

Because, my friends, they all saw me cry, in a big way. All because they are graduating high school.

Not wanting to be left out, my eyes had graduated, as well.

They'd gone from puffy-cry eyes to swollen-shut eyes in about two seconds flat.

That poor kid couldn't hand me enough tissues to deal with that. I now looked like one of those women emblazoned on a domestic abuse poster. Eyes swollen shut. Down-turned mouth. Silently weeping in my pain.

It was oh-so-lovely.

Luckily, it was also humiliating enough for me to suck it up and make it through my entire day without crying again.

But then I arrived at the gym for my last Monday-night Body Pump class.

I taught the class and then told them that I was moving in 2.5 weeks and wouldn't be returning to this Monday night time slot again. I explained how much I'd miss them all and managed, even, to keep my face dry.

But, then, the whole darn room of them applauded me. My boss even led them in a rousing round of "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow." (The nerve.)

And, well, you guessed it: I cried.

And cried. And cried. And cried.

I was hiccuping and snorting and sobbing and wiping sweat and snot from my face like it was nobody's business.

I was the epitome of classy, I tell you. The epitome. And that was all before the hugs started.

Take about waterworks.

I managed to pull it together only enough to get to my car before breaking down again. I drove and sobbed and drove and sobbed.

But I didn't even stop when I got home.

Because I was greeted at the back door by my two very friendly dogs, Marvin and Fish. They were gallivanting and wiggling and, all in all, just happy to see me. They settled down only enough to plop at my feet and lay their heads atop each other, paws intertwined.

Man's best friend, who are also the best of doggy buds.

At least for another 2.5 weeks.

Because when we move to South Carolina, Marvin is coming.

And Fish-y is staying behind.

Technically, Fish was only our foster dog for the year, so we always knew this was day would come. I've been steeling my heart for it for months. Poor Fish-y had to go back to his rightful owners, and we'd become a one-dog family once again.

Unfortunately, though, nobody's told Marvin yet.

And those two doggie-boys are going to be heartbroken.

You can't bring Marvin in the house without Fish whining alone in the backyard. If Fish sits with me at the front of the house, Marvin goes crazy if he's not right there next to him. They freak out when they're separated for even the most dreaded of situations, like their routine bath. They sleep on top of each other, eat together, patrol for squirrels, and bark at intruders, passersby and stealthy breezes together.

These two are inseparable.

For now.

And thinking about all of that, thinking about how their poor little doggy hearts are about to be broken soon after I tear them apart - well, you can guess what happened.

The tears?

They were aflowin'.

I sat there, on the stoop. Crying. Over dogs.

Or, rather, over dog relationships.

Woe is me, all right. Woe is me.

I didn't know a person's body could hold that many tears. But mine did. And, even as I type this, I can feel more coming.

Because, it turns out, I don't leave well.

I don't exit gracefully.

I can't handle good-byes.

And I still have 2.5 weeks of them left.

Sniff, sniff.

Somebody pass me the tissues.

***

Happy Tuesday!

Idyllic Indecency

The weather is gorgeous here.

It's sunny; it's warm; it's breezy.

It's the kind of weather that makes you want to eat everything al fresco and run through the grass barefoot (being careful to avoid all bugs, dog poop, and reptiles, of course.)

So yesterday afternoon - the one day of the week I don't spend at the gym - I took a good book, a stack of magazines, a glass of iced tea, and a lawn chair out to the backyard. I let one of my 80-pound dogs, Fish, climb into my lap while the other, Marvin, lay at my feet.

It was perfect.

Until Marvin got up, idled over to the back corner of the yard, and started barking like a mad man.

Incessantly.

Annoyingly.

Loudly.

Still, I was determined to keep reading, so, eyes on the page, I started yelling, "Marv! Shhhh! Marv! Be quiet! Marvin! Stop it right now!"

But he didn't.

He kept at it so religiously that, finally, I was forced to look up.

And notice that a strange man was standing there.

Just beyond the fence of the backyard.

Peeing.

Just putting it all out there, lazily glancing off, without a care in the world, it seemed.

Peeing.

(Or doing something else unsavory with his pants unzipped that I care not to think about at the moment.)

I was mortified. I felt like I'd just accidentally opened the door on someone using the john.

So I followed my gut instinct and tried to hide behind my magazine.

Because dear Lord in heaven, I did not want to see any of that.

I was embarrassed as all get out. For him. For me. For my dog, who was still barking at the urinating man.

And then I realized that man was peeing in a public place. Worse yet, he was basically peeing directly into my backyard.

He was so close that Marvin was standing and barking in the "splash zone," if you will.

He was a grown man on public property, which is clearly visible from multiple houses. None of which have sky-high privacy fences. All of which have plenty of windows. Not to mention the fact that he definitely could see me - his unwilling audience!

I became irate. I was so mad that I wished I owned some kind of weapon I could brandish, waving it about and firing it into the air to scare away this strange urinator and any other peeing freaks that deemed public indecency an everyday occurrence.

But I don't own a gun.

Heck, I don't even own a terribly sharp knife.

So I did the next best thing.

I grabbed my book, my stack of magazines, my iced tea, and my dogs and hastily retreated back into the house. Still blushing. With Marvin still barking.

Because, apparently, nothing is sacred anymore.

Including my own backyard.

***

I hope everyone has a wonderful weekend, free of public indecency and other displays of bodily functions!

Happy Friday!

The day that went to the dogs

Last week wasn't stellar.

I've had worse, but I've had better.

Work was crazy; my emotions and hormones were crazy; I was semi-sick, and my husband was gone.

So, with all that in mind, I was bound and determined to turn my frown upside-down and around this weekend.

While I had a lot of grading to do, I also had a three-day weekend ahead of me, which should have allowed me to spend my days in relative relaxation and solitude before my husband returned home.

I was going to get my peace back, people, if it killed me.

Until I returned home Saturday morning from the gym to find my two dogs - Marvin and Fish - gone.

Yes, completely gone.

Disappeared.

Absent from the fenced-in back yard where I had left them eating and prancing around when I went to the gym that morning.

Because, apparently, when it rains, it pours around here.

Because, just like that, my weekend of solitude and relaxation was quickly shot to heck in a hand basket.

I had to think fast; I had to improvise, and I had to follow - it turns out - one of the craziest itineraries for a Saturday morning to date:

10:10 a.m.: Head around the neighborhood yelling "Marvy! Fish! Come here!" at the top of my lunges and trying to put myself into the mindset of my (slightly stupid but lovable) dogs by asking myself, "Where would I go on a Saturday morning if I was a relatively happy, content dog who normally lays in the front yard on the rare chance I escape, because, after all, I'm not about to leave my relatively comfortable lifestyle for the big bad world?"

10:15 a.m.: Stop and have a conversation with the neighbors' dog, asking if the terrier had seen Marv and Fish. The dog barked. I took that as a "No!"

10:30 a.m.: Returned home to Google the phone number for Animal Control, uncertain how they'd collected our dogs in the last two hours since it was a) a Saturday morning and b) a Saturday morning.

10:32 a.m.: Reach an animal control operator and begin to tell her "I just returned home from the gym to find my two dogs gone. I was wondering if you had them. One is a Great-Dane-lab brindle, and the other is..."

10:32:30 a.m.: The woman interrupts me to say, "And a white bulldog mix? Oh yeah, we've got those two," implying the whole while, "Dear heavens, woman, these dogs are crazy. Come get them."

10:33 a.m.: Realize I need proof of vaccinations, ownership, and money to get the dogs out of the pound.

10:33:30 a.m.: Realize that, because of Fish being in our temporary custody for nine months only, we have no idea where his current vaccination records are, and we have no proof he belongs to us.

10:34 a.m.: Also realize that my husband threw away Marvin's current vaccination records.

10:34:30 a.m.: Freak out.

10:35 a.m.: Remember my husband is currently camping in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Arkansas and has no phone service.

10:35:30 a.m.: Freak out some more.

10:36 a.m.: Begin calling and texting my husband and his camping buddies steadfastly, saying, "It's an emergency. Please call me." Debate calling the Arkansas police to go get my husband and bring him into the range of a cell-phone tower, but think better of it.

10:42a.m.: Receive a text from my husband that says, "Sorry, babe. No cell phone service. Can't talk."

10:43 a.m.: Begin to plot the murder of my husband and question his intelligence, because, seriously, what part of "emergency" does he not understand? Then text him, "EMERGENCY. THIS MEANS GET YOURSELF INTO CELL PHONE SERVICE. OR ELSE. N.O.W."

10:44 a.m.: Start calling every vet in Gainesville, trying to get copies of Marv's vaccination records because, of course, my husband threw away all information about Marvin's current vet, too. A vet, mind you, I had yet to visit because Patrick is the only one of the two of us big enough to take Marvin - and control him - while some doggy doc puts needles in his haunches.

10:47 a.m.: Silently fume at my husband some more.

10:50 a.m.: Find our vet and get them to e-mail me Marvin's records, only to have my husband call as I hang up with the vet.

10:51 a.m: Yell at my husband and cry,with something along the lines of, "The dogs are gone, and I couldn't get you, and why don't I have a cabin number for you? And I swear, I wanted to kill you. And no, they aren't in his file, because you threw away his vet records, because his file has no papers in more current then when they took him to get spayed as a puppy, which was two years, by the way, and seriously, why would you do that, and oh heavens! What part of EMERGENCY don't you understand? What if I had been dead on the side of the road? Would you really text me back, 'No Service,' because I feel a whole lot less safe in general right now.'"

10:55 a.m.: Hang up on my husband, still fuming.

10:56 a.m.: Jump in car to go bust Marvin and Fish out of jail, with only half of the necessary paperwork.

11:20 a.m.: Arrive at jail and have to "ID the perps."

11:21 a.m.: Walk past rows of caged animals until I see Marvin and Fish, looking guilty and freaked out, noses pressed together in the same kennel. Find out from the vet there that they had to put them in the same kennel because the two dogs stayed shoulder-to-shoulder the whole time.

11:22 a.m.: Start crying when I see them in doggie jail. I felt like a mother who'd raised criminals.

11:22:30 a.m.: Marv and Fish start crying when they see me cry. Marvin squeals as I walk back to the front desk, as if to say, "Mom, get me out of here! Now!"

11:24 a.m.: Pay an arm and a leg to get my own dogs out of jail. Have to re-vaccinate Fish, as we had no proof of his records. Watch Fish come hobbling out of the back-room, limping and drugged from all the needles and injections. Feel bad.

11:30 a.m.: Talk to the animal control specialists about how much, apparently, in the short time they'd spent with Marv and Fish, they fell in love with them. They used words like, "big babies," "sweetest dogs ever," and "what nice big fellas." I used phrases like "Thank goodness you found them because these big babies wouldn't stand a chance out in the wild, real world."

11:35 a.m.: Lecture the dogs as I load them into the car about running off. Marvin licks me; Fish hangs his head in shame.

11:36 a.m.: Off-handedly ask the animal control specialist how he found them.

11:37 a.m.: Find out the two big bums were together, on some woman's farm, when she woke up. They were standing over one of her - gasp! - dead chickens.

11:38 a.m.: Scream.

11:39 a.m.: Then realize that no one anywhere near our neighborhood owns chickens, let alone chickens that graze in an unfenced yard, er, piece of property.

11:40 a.m.: Realize my dogs apparently took quite a trip together to some farm somewhere in our county's 1,000 square miles.

11:51 a.m.: Realize that, apparently, I couldn't get rid of these dogs if I tried. Luckily, I like them.

12:30 p.m.: Return home and walk into the backyard with the dogs.

12:31 p.m.: Watch Marvin trot to the back fence and stick his head through a mangled part of the grate, only to stop and look back at me, as if to say, "See, Mom? This is how we did it! Cool, huh?"

12:57 p.m.: Realize that when the power company came and cut down trees, weeds and limbs along our back fence last week, they mangled the back fence, as well.

1:00 p.m. Sit down on the floor and cry while I hug the dogs. Marvin licked my face; Fish hung his head in shame.

***

Seriously, it was the worst way to start my weekend. I aged at least 10 years in the process. Luckily, the fence is fixed. The dogs are safe, and Fish has enough vaccines in him to make him and all dogs in a 10-block radius of our house immune to rabies and the pox.

I'm still a little shocked they actually ventured off. The few times they've gotten out, they've never gone far. In fact, they normally end up in the front yard or on the front stoop, waiting to be let back in.

Like the animal control specialist said, they're big babies, who like their dog beds, and their owners, and their dog house, and their organic peanut-butter biscuits.

I guess they just needed a little more chicken in their diet.

Happy Monday everyone!