It's Better to Give Than to Receive

We just got home from a big visit to Nevada to see the snow and my husband’s relatives (not necessarily in that order, of course!)

I couldn’t risk leaving Dog with that hussy, Cameron, again, and since we had never taken Dog to the snow, we bundled him up in his bed in the car for the big adventure.


And what an adventure it was! Grandma lives in Nevada in a great neighborhood with majestic views,




Miles of great dog-walking trails, and, most exciting, a deck in her backyard that is the home to a little rabbit!




Oh, the smells you can smell!

Dog spent much of the time sniffing around the backyard, hoping for a glimpse of a bunny.


"Shhhhhhhh, be vewwwy, vewwwy quiet; I'm hunting wabbits.”

No luck. I guess Dog needs a little work on his Creative Visualization.

We all had a grand time, except possibly for Grandma who cheerfully endured a series of minor calamities as a result of our boisterous descent upon her lovely, serene life: My son threw up a pizza lunch Big-Time all over her Berber carpet; my husband accidentally shattered a glass-framed photo that was hanging over her shower; and, worst of all, Grandma suffered a terrible allergic reaction to Dog, despite her obvious affection for him.


I knew I had to blog about this trip, including Dog’s first snow,


But the experience seemed disjointed, as family holiday gatherings tend to be. I needed a unifying theme…

My husband suggested the always-popular holiday cliché “It’s Better to give than to receive.”

“For unlike people,” he said, “a dog is always willing to give rather than receive. Think about how much Dog gives us! He entertains us; he gives us love; he gives and gives.”

I pondered this idea for a moment, but quickly realized it was a romanticized version of Dog. “Yeah. He gives,” I said. “But, I think his world is a little more about receiving,” as I considered all the begging for chicken treats and walks.

Then the wise and beloved, itchy-eyed Grandma reconciled these conflicting notions of Dog with her insight:

“Dog just gives as a part of his nature. He gives unconditional love. Of course, he receives unconditionally, too!”

How true! That got me to thinking about the spirit of giving and receiving among humans—an especially sensitive subject this time of year.

How many hurt feelings, arguments and ego struggles emerge around the whole concept of giving and receiving?

Did I give enough? Did I give too much? Did I spend more money on one kid, sibling, parent than another, and, if I did, will they notice and be jealous? And what about acknowledgment? What if I send gifts and no one says Thank You? Or I give a gift and get a less-than-enthusiastic response? Is it because they don’t like the gift or because they don’t like me?

Receiving is just as fraught with problems: What does it mean when your husband gives you a vacuuming robot or your wife gives you an electric nose-hair trimmer? What if someone surprises you with a gift and you don’t have a reciprocal gift? And we all know people who have a hard time receiving, incapable of feeling like they deserve something nice.

Dog has none of these are issues. As part of his divine nature, giving, receiving, loving, being loved are all the same—natural actions and reactions that arise out of always living in the glory of the present.

Dog has nary a worry about paying too much attention to one member of the family. He snuggles and kisses who he wants when he wants. He makes us laugh because it’s fun to slide across the floor as he scurries after a tennis ball. He never questions the offer of a chicken treat or a squeaky toy or a tummy rub. He is an enthusiastic recipient of all treats.

How cool would it be if we could all give and receive naturally, unconditionally, joyfully with no ego or anxieties or expectations?

A Course in Miracles says,

“To give is to receive. Today we will attempt to offer peace to everyone, and see how quickly peace returns to us.”

Dog and I wish you a New Year filled with lots of Happy Giving and Receiving!

Seasons Greetings!

Note: This was posted later due to technical difficulties with scanning photos and E-Blogger seemingly "crashing" in the middle of my post and making me re-do all the photos. Arrrgggghhhh!

p.s. Santa did not do my dishes, although I have been a very good girl this year, so I am slightly disillusioned.

It’s 2:00 on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. The shopping’s done; the gifts are wrapped; the mistletoe is hung (oh, and, of course, the dog is walked). How should I spend these cherished moments before the chaos soon begins again?

It’s either clean up the kitchen or write the blog. I’ve neglected them both for too long, but, heck, it’s Christmas, so I’ve decided to give myself a present and do the one that I like best. (Maybe Santa will do the dishes!)

And one more thing…the cards are mailed. Which got me to thinking about all the work we put into our holiday greetings… I wrote this essay a few years ago and just updated it to include Dog. May you enjoy my foolish, yet well-intentioned machinations. After all, isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

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“Tis the season. And I don’t mean eggnog and sugar plums.

I mean the dreaded Holiday Card Season. To me that means only one thing—the annual agony of trying to get a decent photo of the world’s most elusive and unpredictable subjects—my kids.

This is my most stressful trial of motherhood. Even more than sleepless nights, temper tantrums and potty training, the holiday photo ordeal makes me wonder, “What were we thinking when we decided to have kids?”

And maybe it’s just my overactive, paranoid imagination, but I also sometimes sense a little competitive spirit lurking under the surface of all those gold-foiled season’s greetings.

Holiday photos are a little like tea leaves or the palm of your hand—you can tell a lot about a person by looking closely and engaging in a little interpretive extrapolation.

I’ve seen everything—elaborately staged, professional portraits, artsy black and white photos, grainy home snapshots. The holiday card I remember best showed a friend’s toddler sitting in Santa’s lap, screaming as if Santa had told her that he was canceling Christmas. No pretensions there!

Our family’s experience with the Holiday Card Saga has been hit or miss—mostly miss. For our official “family card" debut, when my daughter, Savannah, was six months old, we went to one of those big department stores where you get a bazillion photos for the low, low price of $19.95. Technically, the photo was ok, but my husband and I looked so tired that he forbade me to send it to anyone he knew. (And, also, he refused to scan it for this blog.)

Our next memorable holiday photo appeared when I was eight months pregnant and not at my most cheerful and patient. By then Savannah was three and a half going on thirteen. I somehow cajoled her into putting on a fancy, green dress and letting me curl her auburn hair into the most picturesque ringlets. Accompanied by Grandma for moral support, we headed off to see the Mall Santa.

Everything was fine while we waited in the impossibly long line. That’s when I lapsed into having EXPECTATIONS, which we all know is a neon sign directing the Universe to play a very mean joke on you.

The moment it was our turn, suddenly, Savannah transformed from that patient, darling little girl who had waited in line for 45 minutes to a stubborn, rebellious adolescent, refusing to sit on Santa’s lap. I tried friendly, then ever-so-slightly menacing persuasion. If my mother-in-law (who conveniently for me has a Master’s Degree in psychology!) had not been a witness, I would have quickly resorted to bribery or threats.

As the mob of riotous parents and children were closing in behind us, we finally came up with the solution of ALL THREE of us sitting on Santa’s lap together! Grandma who had grown up on a remote ranch in Nevada had never sat on Santa’s lap, so she was beaming with joy! Savannah and I flashed phony smiles through clenched teeth, our fists in little balls of anger and resentment.



But, believe it or not, that was not my all-time low. I would descend further, much further, into the abyss of the Holiday Photo Drama.

The next year, knowing that we had added an extra element of—hmmm, surprise, drama, challenge?—in the form of new baby, Carson, I planned my strategy like a war-wizened general.

I made reservations with a special, Big-City baby photographer and maxed out my credit cards on matching outfits for the kids from Nordstrom’s. I scheduled the outing meticulously so that the hour-long drive would coincide with the baby’s naptime and he would awake, well-rested and delightful in time for his photographic debut. The EXPECTATIONS lesson had clearly not sunk in.

Carson foiled me by crying during the entire drive and then falling asleep exactly two minutes before we arrived. Then, for good measure, he threw up on the photographer’s antique, Oriental rug.

Out of 72 shots, not a single photo was decent of both kids. With the holidays on my heels, I was desperate. It was then, at the height of my panic and despair that I did it—I beheaded my own son! Well, sort of.

Actually, I went to a high-tech expert with two photos of the kids that were in the same pose—one good of him and one good of her. A little digital magic later and, Voila—a perfect image!



One would think that after all of this, I would have learned the perils of pursuing the perfect image. But what would be the fun in that!

So, for Dog’s first Christmas, I really, really wanted to get a photo of him and the kids that would express our playful, joyful, Happy Holiday... Only Dog wasn’t exactly playing along. Here’s the photographic evidence….



Get those antlers on, for Dog's Sake!!!



Cruel and unusual punishment?!!!



Wishing you the relinquishment of expectations and illusions and the happy reality of love and joy this holiday season!

Holiday Greetings from Dog and Friends

Happy Holidays!!!

Happily Ever After

So, by now, it can’t be much of a surprise that Sunny eventually became part of our family.

There was a little minor drama when I e-mailed and called Claudie after our visit and got no immediate response. Lots of panic/anxiety/paranoia on my part! I later learned they had gone through a difficult family situation and had been too consumed with it to answer messages.

When we finally made contact, Claudie was delighted to welcome us into her extended family (we now refer to her as Grandma Claudie). Once we had agreed that we would adopt Sunny, I quickly offered to send her a check as a deposit, but she didn’t need it. She trusted me—not only to fulfill my financial commitment, but, more importantly, to fulfill my lifetime commitment to Sunny.

We could barely wait until the time that we could bring Sunny home. The 10-week mark for releasing puppies conveniently fell on President’s Day weekend. I can’t remember now what it was, but there was some kind of a conflict on Saturday. My husband volunteered to make the long drive on Sunday, but I wanted the kids to have maximum time to bond with Sunny, so I took Carson out of school for the day on Friday and we drove up to pick up the newest member of our family.



Sunny whined and whimpered as we pulled away from Claudie’s house and his mom and his brothers and sisters and all the family and security he had ever known. And it just about broke my heart.

But dogs are resilient and smart and optimistic and trusting and Sunny was soon at home, settling into his Happy Ever After with his new and forever family.




The Story of Sunny, As Always, Will Be Continued…

The Story of Dog (Continued, Yet Again)

So, even though we had thoroughly fallen in love with Rosie’s photographic image and the very idea of her, like the excitement and surreal infatuation you might feel for a stranger after a couple of martinis at a bar, I sobered up and began to think seriously and logically before making a lifelong commitment. This wasn’t just a one-night stand! I would promise to love, honor, cherish, walk, feed and provide veterinary care forever.

Rosie’s owner was pressuring me for a deposit and I was getting cold feet.

As skittish brides and bridegrooms are oft to do, I wanted to explore all my options one last time before taking that giant, irrevocable, ‘Til Death Do Us Part pledge.

I wandered upon another site of not just a Havanese breeder, but a Havanese devottee, an aficionado, a kind of a connoisseur of the Havanese.

Claudie had the most adorable litter of puppies, but they were too young to be adopted. Still, I liked her site and she was relatively local (Fresno—only 2 ½ hours drive away), so I called her. We began talking and she was so nice and friendly and knowledgeable that I ended up telling her the whole story of Rosie and all my apprehensions.

Unlike all the other breeders with whom I had communicated, her goal was not to “sell me a puppy.” Her only purpose seemed to be to make sure that I got a healthy dog that was a good match for our family, and that I realized everything that went into owning a dog in general, and a Havanese, in particular.

She insisted on sending me (at no cost to me, and at her expense even for shipping) a book about Havanese and told me to call her anytime with any questions. She was obviously in love with these dogs and was operating out of pure passion. That immediately resonated with me. My gut felt very good about Claudie.

After much agony and some tears from the children (and, ok, me, too), we decided to let Rosie go to another family and to visit Claudie and puppies the next weekend. It was a long drive from our home—an all day event—but I thought it was really important to meet the breeder and the puppies and see the environment in which they were conceived and raised.

We couldn’t have possibly asked for more. Claudie and her husband Phil were charming, fabulous and absolutely devoted to their Havanese. Claudie was a retired information technology executive and it was clear that it was her inherent love of Havanese that had led her to breed these puppies. This was no puppy mill. This was the first time she had bred her beloved Maddie and she was more protective and loving of those puppies than the best of grandmothers.

Like a cleverly arranged marriage, Claudie chose to mate Maddie with the best male her dowry could afford—Ch. Los Perritos Wee Pantaloons, a two-time U.S. champion Havanese, and, according to his Website, “The Top Producer of All Havanese in the World,” which I think means he gets to mate a lot. Not only is he a champ, but he has the best job in the world! The definition of a stud!

Daddy “Pan” (as he is known to his friends and bitches) is a spectacular-looking dog with a smile that is evident in one little puppy offspring that I know and love.

Maddie's and Pan's puppies were, without a doubt, the cutest things we had ever seen.

We stayed for over an hour, chatting and playing with the puppies and regaling Claudie and Phil with stories of our big backyard and how I was a stay-at-home mom and what a loving, responsible family we were. (I had prepared the kids to be on their best behavior. I knew in advance that we would have to take off our shoes to avoid brining in diseases to the puppies, so I made sure to inspect all socks for cleanliness, smellability factor, and the absence of pesky holes.)

All the puppies were beyond adorable, but two blond brothers, Sandy and Sunny, were notable for their sheer handsomeness and their boundless energy. After playing for about 20 minutes, the other puppies were snoozing on their sides. Sandy and Sunny were still ready to party!

Phil and my husband bonded over Sunny (Phil’s favorite) and his cute face and extreme playfulness. I’m only going to say this once, and, Thank Dog, Dog can’t read: The rest of us would have been thrilled with either Sunny or Sandy, but my husband had his heart set on Sunny. He tends to fall impossibly in love forever at first sight and I can't argue with that since it's worked to my advantage after 14+ years of marriage.

As the time of the visit came to a close, we began to say our good-byes, and, always the salesperson, I wanted to close the deal, which I assumed would be simple, since I was the customer and Claudie was the one who had the goods for sale.

“So, what’s the next step?” I asked cheerfully, completely expecting her to pressure me for a deposit to “reserve” a puppy as most breeders do.

“Well, we need to think about it and make sure that every puppy has a good match. We’ll be in touch,” Claudie said as she ushered us out the door.

I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. Like a blind date in which I had not only gone to all the trouble of doing my hair and nails, but dragged my entire scrubbed and clean-socked family for a 5-hour round trip in which we would be summarily blown off. After seeing, holding, playing with those puppies, I couldn’t imagine that we would never be able to add one of them to our family.

My mind raced with crazy thoughts! What more could we have done? We had pretty much spent more than a decade successfully raising kids--weren't we good enough to parent a puppy? OK, maybe our ancestral linage was not World Champion. (Although my southern family tree was full of names almost as colorfully entertaining as the puppies--i.e. Davy Crocket Lockhart vs. Carousel Callie-oop.)

Maybe we had seemed too desperate. Maybe I had worn too much eyeshadow. Maybe when I wasn't looking Carson showed them how he could create a farting noise with his fist and underarm and they decided we would be a bad influence.

We walked out of their house, a little dazed and hungry, studying their directions to the Fresno Olive Garden.

About a mile down the road, I realized I had left my folder with all my puppy research at their house. We turned back and I meekly knocked on the door. Phil answered and retrieved my manila folder right away.

He liked us he said. We were a nice family. He gingerly closed the front door behind him, stepped onto the porch, glanced sideways left and right and said in a conspiratorial whisper, as if he were conducting some secret, illicit deal, “”You like the white dogs. You want one of the white dogs? Don’t worry. I’ll make it happen.”

With renewed optimism, we were on our way…

To be continued….

The Story of Dog (Continued)

First, a disclaimer: Whenever possible, I think the best option in finding a dog is to go through the local Humane Society and rescue a dog. I know so many people who have done this and ended up with the most wonderful, loving, fabulous dogs. Because of my husband’s allergies, we had to go a different route. I now make every effort to rescue dogs in other ways. More about that later…


For now, on with the story…

When my youngest child went off to first grade and I had this surprising empty place in my heart, I figured getting a dog was an easier option than having another baby. I knew I’d still have to wake up in the middle of the night to tend to whimpers and bowel movements, but the advantages of no stretchmarks or breastfeeding tipped the balance in the puppy’s favor.

Because my husband has terrible allergies (I’m talking furry creatures, here, not the disinclinations to wake up in the middle of the night for feedings or diaper changes), we had to be sure that whatever puppy we got wouldn’t make him miserable with scratchy eyes and sneezing. I know there is a lot of controversy about so-called “hypoallergenic” dogs and supposedly there is no such thing, but we discovered that he is generally ok with dogs that don’t shed.

So, the search began. We looked at Maltese and Poodles and Bichons and just about every conceivable combination of those breeds and others.

We dog-sat for friends with various types of dogs: Carson relaxing in the sun with a friend's Maltipoo, Mooky.


so that we could get an idea of the best dog for our family. (An excellent idea if you are considering getting a dog—a great trial run to see if you and your family are ready for this Big Step. Also, a good idea for considering spouses and children, although personally I think with kids and husbands, it’s best just to make the plunge—otherwise there is way too much fear and thinking involved.)

Our ideal dog would be non-shedding, smart, lively, playful, good with kids, and, of course, very, very cute.

I spent hours scouring the Internet and talking to my dog-owning friends, looking for “our dog.” Then, one day our neighbors came by the house with their new puppy, Cody, and we fell in love.

Cody was a Havanese, a relatively new breed in the U.S. that belongs to the Bichon family, and most recently came from Cuba. We quickly discovered this was exactly what we were looking for. From the official Kennel Club Book of Havanese:

“The Havanese is amazingly intelligent, lively, playful and very devoted to his owners. He will immediately show his affection for you and yours (including the children) and, from the moment you bring it home, become a part of your family life.”

Now my quest had a focus—finding a Havanese puppy. (There is so much important stuff that goes into finding a puppy that I will put into a future post, tentatively titled, “If You Have to Ask, Don’t Get a Dog!”)

After many hours of surfing the Internet I had found the perfect dog. Rosie was an apricot-colored Havanese in New York with a face that was so sweet I gained five pounds just looking at her.

I contacted her breeder immediately and wanted to know more. At first things seemed great, but as I delved deeper I had a funny feeling in my stomach. Rosie’s owner couldn’t really remember exactly how old she was; she was hesitant to give me her Vet’s name and phone number; and, the worst sign, she wouldn’t give me the names and numbers of any other people who had adopted dogs from her. She thought we should be able to “trust” each other.

Now, I am someone who wants more than anything to believe in the honesty and good-nature of my fellow human beings. But, I am also very keen to that vague, insistent feeling that something isn’t quite right.

Still, we wanted a dog and Rosie was available now. I was just about to buy a non-refundable airline ticket for my husband to go get Rosie, when I happened upon another Internet site…

To be continued

The Story of Dog (Continued)

When my husband told a friend that he wanted to get a dog so that he wouldn’t be last in line for my affections in the family, his insightful pal (a father of four) joked, “What doesn’t make you think you’ll be below the dog?”

At the time we all got a good laugh out of the idea, but now it might not seem so funny…

First, we need to understand my personality (not an easy thing to do under any circumstances). I am some kind of weird mix between a Type-A Overachiever and an Earth-Mother Nurturer. I’m not sure exactly what crazy combination of genetics or childhood influences created this unholy alliance of opposites, but there it is, and it is undeniable.

Until I had my first child, I was pretty much exclusively focusing on the Type-A career. I sold software, traveled a bazillion miles a year, worked 80+ hours a week, made a bunch of money and would do practically anything that wasn’t illegal, immoral or fattening to Get the Sale.

Then my daughter was born and that pesky Earth Mother side emerged. I fought it for a time, (you can read more of my story here) (I can't get this link to work exactly, but click and then click on "My Story") but, in the end, the Nurturer won.

In the twelve and a half years since my daughter was born, balancing my two sides has been difficult and precarious, but I know in the very deepest part of my heart that now that she has surfaced, the Nurturer MUST have a presence.

So, after an intense decade-plus of raising kids, with businesses, writing, and other pursuits falling along the side, when my youngest started first grade, it was somewhat of a turning point.

So many possibilities! Finally, a whole six and a half hours a day, uninterrupted by changing diapers, cajoling naps, or demands to read The Hungry Caterpillar or play Hi-Ho Cherry-O!

I could work out and get that post-partum body in shape (ok, in the circles I run in six years is still considered post-partum eligible). I could finally clean out my closets. I could even focus on my blossoming writing career.

Instead, what did I find myself doing with that six and a half hours in the fall of my son’s year of first grade? Searching the Internet for puppies.

The kids wanted a dog, but I needed a dog. After so many years of giving up my self and my ego and my ambitions to the higher purpose of giving myself over to the all-encompassing job of raising kids, I needed a soft landing. I needed another being who needed me, but maybe not so much as a new baby. A being who could help me balance my opposites inklings and who would fulfill my need to nurture, yet give me a little more space.

So, the search began…

To be continued…

Happy Birthday, Sunny!

Today, December 10, 2007 is the second anniversary of the birth of DelRio’s CA Sunshine of LP, or more commonly known as “Sunny,” or simply “Dog.”

We celebrated in grand style with an extra-long walk, a longer nap, a little leftover cheeseburger for lunch (hey, a guy’s got to splurge on his birthday!) a visit to Sunny’s paramour’s house for gifts and playtime,



with the day culminating in a trip to the fabulous Three Dog Bakery,



to pick up a special birthday cake.



We’re pooped!


When we got home, we looked in the paper for Dog’s horoscope.

It says “If December 10 is your birthday…You can expect good fortune during the next few weeks.”

Undoubtedly more trips to Cameron’s house and an increase in chicken treats.

It continues…

“You are a hot prospect. Everyone loves to be close to the whiz kid and you certainly know your stuff. Don’t be surprised if you are the target of Cupid’s arrows this evening.”

Again, Damn you, Cameron! If I had only read the horoscope this morning!

But, seriously, it takes a village to raise a dog, so I am just happy that Dog has so many people who love him. As long as he comes home to me at night, I can forgive his dalliances.

On this momentous occasion, I thought it would be fitting to tell the tale of the real beginning of Dog’s life as he knows it, or how he came into our lives.

Be warned—This tale is overly sentimental, rambling and full of excruciatingly personal and minute details that are probably only fascinating to me. But, hey, it’s a blog, so that’s the deal, right?

Once upon a time there was a happy family of four, but something was missing. Our kids, as kids all over the world typically do, wanted a pet. We thought we would first try fish, the most unobtrusive, least-bothersome of pets. An ideal choice for a busy mother. But, two major problems—

Number One: The fish had an unfortunate tendency to pass away at just about the time we would start to get attached to them. (We have an extensive, multi-colored pebbled fish graveyard in the backyard as testament to both the attachment and the unfortunate, untimely, recurrent dying.)

Number Two: Fish aren’t really the most interactive of creatures. They aren’t the best at giving and receiving love as one would ideally desire in a pet. (Although my son’s insistence on trying to “pet” the Beta fish in the bowl, perhaps with not-the-most-sanitary or aquatically beneficial of hands may in part have contributed to problem Number One.)

We toyed with the other possibilities…Birds, Hamsters, rats—just more of problems Numbers One and Two, perhaps on a slightly lesser degree. I couldn’t get excited about owning any of these animals. It seemed to me to be more about the idea of “having a pet” while tolerating their existence and cleaning up a lot of poop—not my idea of a fulfilling experience.

My son, Carson, lobbied hard for a snake, but I told him he would have to wait until he had his own apartment.

Carson was also madly in love with cats and a cat would have been an obvious choice—long-living, possibly snuggly, yet easy to take care of and independent. But my husband is allergic and doesn’t like cats much anyway.

So, it had to be a dog. My husband was actually excited at the possibility, telling a friend at a dinner party that he wanted to get a dog so that he wouldn’t be the last person on the totem pole of our family for my affections.

If he only knew…

To be continued…

The Other Woman

I knew there was someone else in his life by the way he looked at me.

As I walked out the door and he gazed up at me with those liquid brown, oh-so-sad eyes that said She wouldn’t leave me alone so often. She would pay more attention to me. When I’m with her, I feel special. She really knows how to treat a guy.

Oh, I know he’s always been a little aloof. Like when I sit next to him on the couch and try to cuddle, he’ll move directly to the other end of the sofa, just out of reach. He gives love on his terms only, when and if he feels like it. But I’d become accustomed to his ways and grateful for the scraps of affection that he doled out at his whim.

But now, when I looked in his eyes, I knew he was thinking only of her.

I tried to tell him that what he had experienced, that what he thought was true love wasn’t real life—it was just a fling. A white-hot infatuation that could never last. Nobody could be that fabulous, that constantly devoted all the time.

But, still, he would sit and look out the front window, as if he imagined she would come back to him.

Damn you, Cameron!

My mistake for leaving Dog with someone who loved him so much. With someone who secretly craved the relationship I had, and who would stop at nothing to get it, all the while pretending to be my friend.

And then, my dear friend, who I trusted as a safekeeper of my beloved, immediately used all of her wiles to woo Dog. (And she couldn’t wait to tell me how quickly he hopped into bed with her!)

Three walks a day?! Putting him into bed with you in the morning?! Surreptitiously feeding him bits of turkey breast by hand under the dining room table?!

How can I compete with that?!

I knew I was in trouble a few nights ago when my husband and I were getting ready to watch a movie on the couch. Dog was upstairs and we wanted him with us on the couch. We called and he ignored us. We called again. No response.

Then my little 8-year-old wise soul, comedian whispered in my ear, “Why don’t you yell, ‘Cameron’s here!’?”

And so I did.

He couldn’t get down those stairs fast enough.

This is not the end. I’m fighting for my guy. I’m upping the walks and extra chicken treats all around.

I refuse to give in. At least until we go on vacation again.

Canine Connection Unleashes Fun

As you know, my dear friend, Cameron, and her dog-loving children hosted Dog for his own vacation while we were off sunning and surfing. Here is a link to her very fun, heartfelt column about their time with Dog:

"Our guest for Thanksgiving exhibited superhuman powers. To begin with, there are few individuals who can force me to relax; I'm normally busy, high-strung and a bit on the hyper side. But this guy encouraged me to take it easy, to take long strolls, to nap at unusual times, and to frequently stop working in the middle of important tasks."

Continue reading here...

As soon as I get my act together regarding holiday shopping, volunteering, and catching up on laundry and e-mails after the vacation I will post more about our crazy doggie love triangle.

Talking Dogs

On vacation I read a really fun book—Walking in Circles Before Lying Down by Merrill Markoe, who was the original head writer for Late Night with David Letterman. (And, who, no matter what else she accomplishes in life, will forever be fondly known as the creator of “Stupid Pet Tricks.” )

We’ve all heard of Chick Lit and then Hen Lit and even Lad Lit, but I think this would be the first ever example of Dog Lit. If you have ever looked at your dog and said, “I sure wish he could talk,” this book is for you.

The Story: Dawn, a kind of a lovable loser protagonist, gets dumped by her latest boyfriend-from-Hell. After having two shots of Scotch (at 7 in the morning) Dawn suddenly discovers that she can hear her dog, Chuck, talking. And, Oh, The Things He Can Think!

Fun and funny and still a teeny bit literary (which means it makes you think) on the side….

I quickly fell in love with Dawn and Chuck and the other dogs from Dawn’s Doggie Daycare job. (The other humans, not so much.)

A few highlights of Chuck’s view of the world:

On Peeing:

“Well, there’s two kind of peeing,” he said. “There’s regular peeing, because you have to pee. And then there’s auxiliary competitive peeing. For acquiring and empire. I’m all about the real estate.”

On Intimate Relationships (Sex)—a conversation between Dawn, Chuck, and Johnny Depp (another dog—this story takes place in L.A.)

Chuck: What’s the population of Los Angeles, for God’s sake?

Dawn: I think it’s about four million.

Chuck: At least half of them would do it with you.

Dawn: It’s different for me than for you. You don’t seem to have any standards. But as a woman…it’s my goal to have sex only with guys I love.

Chuck: That’s just stupid. Had a look around at the rest of the animal kingdom lately? I’ll have sex with anyone who doesn’t try to kill me.

Johnny Depp: And, even then, as long as their butt smells good, I’m in.

On Instincts:

“I’m the one in touch with that little thing called instincts. That’s all dogs have. No one ever accused us of being too cerebral or praised our contributions to the arts.”

Amen!

In the next day or two I am going to attempt to telepathically connect to Dog to see what he has to say. Stay tuned....

We're Back!!!!

I am happy to report that we are all safely home after our respective vacations.

The humans are thoroughly Disneyed-out after a day in Disneyworld and seven days on the Disney Cruise, which is non-stop, 24/7 partying with Princesses and Pirates, Minnie and Mickey, Lilo and Lion King and the incessant encouragement to “Wish Upon a Star” and Believe That Your Dreams Can Come True. I walked off the ship all inspired with new hope for World Peace, losing ten pounds, an immaculate house and writing a book that makes the NY Times Bestseller list!

Dog had a very different vacation—yet much more suited to his peculiarities. He spent his ten days being pampered and petted and fed chicken treats and learning new tricks and going on Three Walks a Day!

I worry when I leave him. I wouldn’t think of leaving him in a kennel (and I know there are very fine kennels and for certain dogs they are great, but not for Sunny and his personality and the life he is accustomed to). But beyond that I am also very picky about who I leave him with. I will only leave him with a family with kids because he loves people so much and I want him to feel at home and loved and to have lots of interaction. Luckily we have good, kind, dog-loving friends who have been more than happy to host a Sunny vacation.

I knew Dog would be more than fine when I called the morning after we left and talked to my friend, Cameron, who was watching him for us. She recounted his first night:

As I had instructed, she put his doggy bed next to her bed and urged him to go to sleep. “BEDTIME!” That’s one of the few commands he knows. But Dog was too smart for that. He sensed an opportunity, vulnerability.

Dog strolled over to her side of the bed and sat down and emitted the teeny-tiniest whimper. Almost imperceptible to the human ear, except for mothers who are attuned to listening for their babies in the middle of the night. A whimper that was pleading, heartfelt and sad, yet not too bold or irritating or whiny. A cry that said, “I don’t want to be too much trouble, but I’m lonely and confused. I’ve been abandoned. Won’t you please help me?”

And my dear, sweet friend, who is a natural nurturer and who has a heart made of marshmallow crème, barely hesitated before she acquiesced, “Oh, come on. Up on the bed.”

I must admit a tad of jealously. I am gone not even 24 hours and he’s jumping into bed with another woman! Love the one you’re with, I guess.

Alas, those sleeping arrangements were a one-night stand. In the morning, when my friend’s husband tried to kiss her Good Morning, Dog jumped between them and growled, protecting his new woman. No more sleeping with the grown-ups.

The next night, and every night after that, my friend’s twin daughters hosted a campout on the floor with Sunny happily snuggled on the sleeping bag in between those two little warm bodies.

Love the one you’re with.

Happy Thanksgiving!

We're leaving on vacation and Dog is gone on his vacation with my wonderful friend, Cameron and her beautiful family. Cameron's daughter, Sarah, was waiting on the porch for us when we drove up tonight with Dog--she was so excited. Dog cried with happiness when he saw we were going to Sarah's house. (Maybe as opposed to yesterday when we went to the SPCA to get him a rabies shot, but that's a whole 'nuther blog post on its own.)

I left them with two dog beds, lots of chicken treats and a long list of ridiculously obsessive/compulsive instructions. Cameron's husband was so cute. He asked if they're were any restrictions, anything Dog couldn't do. Of course I asked him to limit television time and absolutely no video games.

I know they will take fabulous care of him.

So, I won't be blogging again until the week after Thanksgiving. Cameron may do a guest blog or two with an update about how Dog's vacation is going.

You may just see a photo of Dog relaxing by the pool with an umbrella drink and a tray of chicken treats...

Wishing everyone out there in the blogosphere a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

I have a confession. Something so bad that I would be thoroughly embarrassed for most of my dog lover friends or the producers at “Pet Star” to know. The truth is… I haven’t taught Dog squat.

He doesn’t know how to Sit or Stay or Roll Over on command. When we go for walks, he pulls at the leash and criss-crosses from left to right and right to left—making me do a crazy leash limbo dance with anyone who tries to walk with us.

Maybe it’s my desire for freedom projected onto Dog. I reluctantly live within the confines of society dictating how clean my house should be, how skinny my behind should be, what determines success—why should Dog be subjected to the same scrutiny?

Or maybe it’s because we got too busy when he was a puppy, at the prime time for obedience training, and I had two kids playing spring ball and I was at the Sports Park every afternoon/evening of the week and twice on Saturday—way too busy for any kind of a regular doggie training schedule.

Or maybe, and, OK, this sounds suspiciously like bragging and rationalization, but maybe it’s because Dog is so smart and (mostly) cooperative that when I need to teach him something really crucially important like potty training or not running away when we open the front door or going back to his bed when he wakes in the middle of the night that he learns it so quickly and effortlessly that it doesn’t seem necessary to spend the time and money and inconvenience of going through the official “obedience training.”

But, really, the number one reason I have not taught Dog tricks is that I am conflicted about it.

It feels a little manipulative. Do what I say on command and you get a treat.

And a little showy. Like parading your children out to play violin solos for unsuspecting dinner guests.

And ego-driven. Watch as I get the Dog to follow my orders. Isn’t he smart and aren’t I smart for teaching him these fabulous things?!

Or maybe I’m just jealous.

Because, of course, whenever we visit anyone with a “well-trained dog” and we watch the dog do tricks I feel a little guilty and bad for Dog, like "I’m sorry, I should have helped you more with your homework, so you could be at the top of your doggie class, performing to accolades, too."


This weekend, we visited our wonderful, old, (as in we've known them a long time) friends who live in Sonoma County. They have the most beautiful, sweet, adorable dog that they rescued from the Humane Society—some crazy mix of a Labrador and probably white German Shepherd. Kita, who is honest to Dog, the friendliest, calmest, nicest dog in the world (present company of Dog excepted). She smiles all the time.

Our friends have kids the same genders and ages as ours and we thought the dogs would get along, so we brought the whole family for the weekend.

We were all having a grand time. Then, somewhere between dinner and dessert, our friends wanted to show off the tricks they had trained Kita to do.

Like a circus animal, Kita Sat, Rolled Over and even Jumped Through Hoops on command.

Dog, having no ego, only the basic desire for food, was nonplussed with the accomplishments, but quite interested in the treats involved.

The spontaneous combustion of Dog’s desire for treats and our desire to prove our dog’s intelligence and equal fabulousness resulted in a ridiculous scene.

Kita, long, lean, athletic, brave, beautiful, jumping through hula-hoops like a Lipizzaner Stallion. Then Dog, like a fluffy little old lady, sniffing his way cautiously through the hoop, “What do we have here? Is this safe? Hmm, Let's see...is this really worth the effort? Maybe if you lower it, just a tad. OK, a little more..."



We all laughed at the antics of the dogs and hand-fed them treats whether they "deserved" them or not; we ate too much dark chocolate dessert and drank too much red wine and had too much fun.

Old friends, new tricks and spontaneous joys are the best...Hoops or no hoops.

I’m Sticking with My Pack (Warning—Long Post, Rant, Not Really About Dog)

Dogs are innately pack animals. They instinctively need to belong to a pack because they know they cannot survive without a pack.

I think the same could be said for writers.

A few days ago I ventured into the Big City with a friend for a writing workshop taught by a Big Time Literary Writer—author of award-winning books, writer of articles published in fancy places like The New York Times and Esquire.

I love taking writing classes. I love the interaction with other people who are smart and fun and like to think about things and who have similar aspirations. Some classes have been awesome, some not so much. One thing I have learned is that no matter how pathetic and boring and horrible a class is, you can usually glean at least one teeny bit of information that you will find useful or inspiring.

True to my theory, the one valuable thing I learned from this class was that if you want to write something about someone that you think might bother them, you should first say how incredibly good looking that person is. Then you can get away with almost anything.

Lesson learned. Let me say that the instructor was wildly handsome—a total dreamboat hunk of a man.

Now onto the rest of the story….

A little background… My friend and I are the kind of writers that literary snobs and Big Time agents might call hobbyists. Between us, we have five kids age 12 and under. We are plenty busy with essential non-literary activities like carpooling and cleaning toilets and slathering organic apples with non-hydrogenated peanut butter.

Our quest is for balance between general conditions that could be considered sanitary, our own sanity and serenity, with hopes for a little serendipity on the side. I think it’s a sanity thing that drives us by some wild, uncontrollable urge within ourselves to write. We write because we must.

Our ultimate fantasy does not involve white sand beaches or George Clooney, but the luxury of taking a month off to run away to a writing colony or the freedom to get so inspired that we can write for 24 hours straight. (And, ok, if George were there on the beach when we were ready for a break, that would work, too.)

But that’s the dream. The reality is we have to interrupt the Great American Novel every so often to check the homework and at least microwave dinner.

We write for the love of it, and because the ideas spill into our brains and we can’t help ourselves, in spite of all the external consequences and demands that suggest we would be much more productive by doing the laundry instead.

So, here we were, going to a class at this very cool, artist collective in the Big City. It’s a wonderful idea—get a big warehouse space and subdivide it into small offices and rent them really inexpensively and create this big pool of creativity.

I had met the founder (a Very, Very Big Time Author who was so nice and friendly and also genuinely handsome) and asked him about renting a space—even if I couldn’t use it full-time. He told me they only wanted full-time writers and artists—the collaboration was a very essential part of the idea and they wanted the offices full.

Of course, that only made me want it more.

What did Groucho Marx say? That any club that wanted him as a member he wasn’t interested in? Of course, the opposite is true, and any club that wants to exclude me is irresistible.

I wanted a space in that building and I wanted it bad. Fueled on a pre-class glass of chardonnay and the adrenaline of driving over the bridge and seeing the lights of the city emerge, my friend and I devised a plan. We could split the rent between the five writers in our writers’ group! We would each go in one day a week and that way the space would always be occupied and we would get one day each in the city to be energized by these mythological writers who could spend every waking moment in the pursuit of literary greatness.

But, there was a catch. We could not be ourselves. We would have to pretend to be “cool” to gain admittance to this exclusive clique of “artistes.” We took a vow of silence. Under no circumstances were we to reveal the name of the suburb where we lived, the topics about which were writing, or the numbers or ages of kids waiting at home for bedtime stories.

We were busted the moment we walked into the room. It was two minutes until the class was beginning and the room was full—yet there was no sound. Lots of dour-looking individuals with crossed arms and black clothes. (Not that I have anything against black. It’s so slimming! But maybe not from head to toe, including tattoos, nail polish and lipstick.)

Maybe it was the subject, “Writing from Experience,” and the instructor’s history (which I neglected to research in my enthusiasm for a cheap, geographically convenient class.) It turned out that the instructor’s specialty was memoir-type writing focusing on S&M and proclivities that could be most delicately described in polite company as sexual deviancies. The title of his most recent book, “My Girlfriend Comes to the City and Beats Me Up” might give you some idea.

Looking around the room, it was clear that he had targeted his niche and that my friend and I had somehow slipped between the lines.

One might think that this realization would be the worst of the evening. Oh, No.

My friend, an Erma Bombeck-type, has a distinctive, shall we say, boisterous laugh and personality. This did not sit well with the literary vampires. A few moments into the class and her joviality was so disruptive to the worshipful atmosphere of the class that we were immediately shunned.

Soon we were admonished by the teacher as “The Bad Kids” of the class. At first I thought he was kidding. We were basically laughing at his lame jokes and participating in the class when he asked (what were obviously in hindsight rhetorical) questions.

When he asked for an example of a “protagonist/author” novel and I offered up “The Lovely Bones,” and he looked up at the ceiling and stammered that he wasn’t quite sure and I spoke up, challenging him, quoting the first lines of the book, “My name was Salmon, like the fish; first name, Susie,” and he reluctantly sighed and wrote the title on his whiteboard I knew I had burned that bridge.

We were not going to get an office space. We would not get to go into the City and hang out with the cool writers.

I felt bad for about a minute.

Then I remembered when my friend and I were talking earlier about the passion and love of the five members of our Writers’ group...

We started meeting several years ago, when we were mostly wannabe writers with a lot of heart and not much experience. Since then we have among us, two newspaper columnists, a freelancer who has been published in notorious places like The Christian Science Monitor, an award-winning, traditionally published book and two novels that are being shopped right now.

We all have husbands and kids and we are fiercely devoted to our families, but also fiercely devoted to writing. And to each other.

We have nursed each other through form rejections letters, big birthdays ending in zeroes and cancer scares. We know we can count on each other for love and support, whether it comes in the form of a funny e-mail, a referral to an editor, or watching the kids for a weekend so a friend can finish her book.

I love these women in a way that, even as a writer, I cannot put into words. They are my pack.

The Secret—“It Totally Works,” Proclaims The Dalai Dog

There’s been a lot of buzz this year about The Secret, the best-selling New-Agey book and movie that assert that just by thinking about something you can create it.

The Secret, or the Law of Attraction, is simultaneously appealing and appalling. How cool if I could just think of something fabulous (winning the lottery, squeezing into a size two, having the dishwasher unload itself) and have it happen, as if by magic. But it’s also scary—how many of the random thoughts and fears that parade through my mind on a daily basis would be not so great if they actually happened?

The writers of The Secret claim that everything that comes into our lives, both good and bad, is all our own responsibility--magnetized by our thoughts and feelings. I’ll admit I have my doubts.

I have plenty of examples in my own life when this has worked: When I decide that I would meet Oprah before I turned 40 and landed on her bookclub show the next month; Getting my book published; Even getting Dog.

But there are also plenty of times when it hasn’t worked: I still haven’t make the NY Times Bestseller List; The house still hasn’t figured out how to clean itself; And there’s the matter of all those losing lottery tickets.

But according to The Secret, dwelling on those things not happening will only cause them to not happen even more in the future. So, I’ll keep imagining and visualizing and hoping for the best.

In the meantime, Dog has got it all figured out.

Last night when I was rushing around trying to get dinner on the table, he sat in the kitchen looking up at me with those big brown, begging eyes. I was pan-frying chicken-apple sausages and the aroma was just too much for him. But he didn’t jump up on me or whine. He just sat calmly in the middle of the kitchen floor with a Zen-like look of concentration.

In that moment in time, the whole focus of his existence—all of his thoughts and dreams and desires and ambitions were of one thing and one thing only—getting his paws on that sausage.

There was no hesitation on his part. No doubts or fears or questioning of the practicality of that sausage. He didn’t wonder “Should I want that sausage? Would that sausage really make me happy? Maybe if I got that sausage I would be miserable. Maybe I’d have to give up a lot of other great stuff for that sausage. Maybe I should wait and see she what she cooks next.”

Nor did he wonder if he was deserving of that sausage. He didn’t fear that he wasn’t smart enough or hadn’t worked hard enough for it. He didn’t worry about what his friends would think if he got the sausage. Would they be jealous? It never crossed his mind.

No interference. Instead, he sat perfectly still, desiring, imagining, believing that he would get that sausage.

And do you know what happened?

As I was cutting the sausage up for my son’s dinner, the knife slipped. And a great big hunk of sausage flipped off the plate and landed on the floor right at Dog’s feet.

It was just like the book said, “Like Aladdin’s Genie, the law of attraction grants our every command.”

The Dalai Dog wins again.

Dog is a Master of the Four Agreements

One of my all-time favorite books is The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz. I love this book for the power of its message, but especially for its simplicity. When you read it, you cannot help but to realize how very much better your life would be if you just followed these four easy rules. (But like many things that are good for us, they prove to be not so easy to practice in the “real world.”)

The book is based on ancient Toltec (Amerindian people that lived in Mexico before the Aztecs) wisdom. You can almost feel your wild, wise spirit guide hovering about as you read it.

All four agreements are wonderful, but my favorite is number two: ”Don’t take anything personally.”

From the book: ”Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.”

I know I’ve experienced a lot of guilt, heartache, and feelings of failure and not being good enough because I didn’t get this agreement.

How many times do we do exactly that? Are we crushed when someone doesn’t return a phone call? Or fails to notice a special effort we made? Or says something carelessly rude?

When this happens we usually jump right into fear and hurt feelings and often escalate into anger and attack.

When most of the time, it’s not about us at all.

When my son was in kindergarten he had this adorable teacher—young and blond and pretty and oh-so-nice. I forget exactly what had happened—I forgot to turn in a field trip permission slip or didn’t respond to an e-mail or some other silly thing. I was already feeling guilty, but when I was volunteering in the class, I noticed that the normally friendly Miss S. was decidedly cool. She must be mad at me, my guilty, self-critical, chattering mind started ranting.

This bothered me the whole time I was working in the class. I kept trying to make amends, smiling and making small talk, oversharpening pencils and tidying up excessively, trying desperately to make her like me again. But she remained a brick wall of stoic silence.

Finally, at the end of the day, after all that obsessing and worrying, I went up to Miss S., ready to throw myself at her mercy. I apologized profusely and asked if she was upset with me.

She shook off her fog and looked at me blankly. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I haven’t been getting much sleep and my mind has been elsewhere. My step-father is dying.”

Boom! Talk about getting whacked by the Universe! By taking her reaction personally not only had I “suffered needlessly,” but I had been focusing so much on me and what I was feeling that I totally missed that she was suffering for a very real reason that was very much her own.

Now whenever I am tempted to take something personally I remember that instance.

I can learn a lot from Dog.

By now you know how much Dog loves people. When we are on our walks, he goes out of his way—will stop mid-stride, tug the leash to cross the street, look up expectantly as people pass, as if saying, “Hey, Hi! Look at me! I’d like to grace you with a little of my warm personality and heartfelt affection!”

Reactions vary. Some people pause for a quick pet and move along. Some smile and wave without missing a step. Others make a complete stop, bend down to give him the full pet, tell us how cute he is and, in some cases, how much he reminds them of a dog they know or once loved. Still others move along without even so much as acknowledging his existence. (In one extreme case, a crazy guy at the park barked expletives at Dog when he crossed his path!)

The point is it’s not about Dog. Dog is the same friendly, unconditionally loving pooch, but their responses are all about them: What their personal history with dogs is; how much of a hurry they are in at the moment; whether they are partial to small dogs or big dogs; whether or not they know and want to chat with the person on the other end of the leash.

But Dog is a master of the Four Agreements. He never takes it personally. He might look longingly after them if someone passes us by, then back to me as if to say, “What’s up with that?” Then, in a moment, the slight is forgotten. Dog is on his happy way again, ready to cheerfully meet and greet the next person along the path of life.

Another Dalai Dog!

It looks like we are not the only ones with a Dalai Dog! In the news today...

The American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals awarded its "Dog of the Year" award to Toby, a 2 1/2 year-old golden retriever. Toby achieved this illustrious honor by saving his owner, Debbie Parkhurst from choking.

Parkhurst bit into an apple and choked on the peel. "I couldn't breathe," she says "and I was in a panic when Toby jumped on me. (landing hard on her chest and forcing the apple piece out of her throat) He never does that, but he did, and saved my life."

But that's not all.

Parkhurst believes that Toby's Heimlich maneuver may have been guided by divine intervention!

"That's what our veterinarian said," she said. "He wasn't making a joke; he's very spiritual, and now I have to agree with him."

Toby's story of heroism began with heartache when he was abandoned in a garbage bin as a four-week-old puppy. Luckily he was rescued and lived to fulfill his splendid destiny.

Here's to the good karma of rescuing dogs! To Toby and all Dalai Dogs everywhere!

Bow-Wow-a-Ween in Pictures

Halloween begins with volunteering at the class party... Q: What do you call a ghost with a broken leg? A: A Hoblin goblin! Q: When does a ghost eat breakfast? A: In the moaning! Ok, you get the idea...



Next, we send our kids out into the big wild world of Halloween armed with empty pillowcases and the youthful optimism of the only time in their lives in which they can expect to get something for nothing. And that something is often chocolate. It doesn't get much better.



We read in the news this morning that many pets were frightened by Halloween. Dog was all bark and no fright. He waited eagerly for all ghosts and goblins.



Where are they?!!!




There they are!


Oh, for Dog's sakes! Do you see how the neighborhood kids love Dog?! Especially the girls! (That is not a fake vampire tongue!) If he could only eat chocolate his day would be complete...

Happy Howl-o-ween

Trick or Chicken Treat!

The Pupose of Life

I guess if you are bold or crazy enough to start a blog called “The Dalai Dog,” you should expect spiritual seekers.

Requests are pouring in for Dog to answer the great questions of humanity. I hope he is up to the task. (Maybe if I promise him some chicken treats?)

My friend, Cameron, a weekly columnist for the local newspaper who is a smart, inquisitive sort (and who will be taking care of Dog when we go on vacation over Thanksgiving) was so excited about this blog. “I would love to know the purpose of life from a dog’s perspective!” she exclaimed on the phone.

Well, Little Grasshopper, listen closely, as the Dalai Dog shares his wisdom…

The purpose of life is complicated, yet simple. Hidden in the illusions of reality that you call life.

You think that the purpose of life is a tangible thing that can be touched, captured, achieved like the Best of Show ribbon. But what good is that award when you are alone in your crate at night?

No, my friend, the purpose in life is not how many ribbons you win or how many people you impress or your AKC pedigree. The secret of life is this:

1) Food
2) Sleep
3) Play
4) Walks
5) Love

Not necessarily in that order. As you move through life the order will change. When you are a puppy, play is the top priority. As you grow older, food and sleep take precedence. Walks (work, exercise for you humans) is constant, although you may resist it. Dogs, who are much more intuitively intelligent about these types of things, realize how essential it is every day.

Pleasure, exertion, rest must be balanced to be appreciated.

But, the most important of all these secrets is love. Is there anything better than being greeted with the excitement of a wagging tail at your mere presence? Or expressing your love freely, fearlessly, with wild abandon?

Beyond everything else, we are here to give and receive love.

That, Little Grasshopper, is the purpose of life.

Now, where’s my chicken treat?!

Sunny Day

By Guest Blogger, The Dog Cuddler

"Not right now. Not right now! Bedtime baby, bedtime!" my wife commands Sunny.

She is hoping to stall our fluffy little canine alarm clock who is awake at 6:15 am and relentlessly pawing at the side of the bed. It works. Briefly. Like hitting the snooze button.

We thought getting a dog would have lots of the benefits of having another baby, but without so much work. We didn’t figure on the pre-dawn awakenings.

But, unlike a baby who learns to sleep in, I have my doubts about Dog.
And this causes me to ponder the age-old question: Can you teach an old dog new tricks?

Don't get me wrong. There's no turning back for Sunny. It's me that has to change.

I've never been an early morning person and now it has been forced upon me - again. It conjures up memories of my early morning paper route many years ago. Back then, I had $51 a month as motivation. Now, I need a daily reward and payment has to be up-front!

For those of you with your mind in the gutter, of course I'm referring to Peet's coffee.

So, I jump out of bed with Peet's on my mind and start another "Sunny Day.”
With almost two hours to go until the kids need a ride to school, there is ample time to waste.

I read the paper, surf the web, get ready for work, and play fetch with Sunny.
My wife fixes breakfast for Sunny and sometimes for me, too. As the coffee reaches its full effect, I gather the kids up and off we go to school.

On the way out the door, I glance over at Sunny to say goodbye. But, he is asleep on his back with paws folded and legs up in the air.



Now, that is what I call a Sunny Day.

I Told You He Was Pupular

This is sooooo cute!

We are going on vacation over the Thanksgiving holiday and my good friend, Cameron and her family have magnanimously volunteered to take care of Sunny for us. (This is no small thing, since the first year we had Sunny we didn’t take a vacation—I was too nervous about leaving him.)

Their whole family is gearing up for the big dog vacation. They recently had Sunny over for a trial run on a Sunday afternoon and in the space of about an hour and a half, they had taken him on two walks, escorted him around the neighborhood to introduce him to the other local dogs (so he would have some friends when he came back), cuddled with him on everyone’s bed and played countless games of fetch and chase the tennis ball. (Sunny was so exhausted; he came home and went straight to bed.)

Sarah, Cameron’s daughter, really loves dogs (and Sunny in particular) and so she is counting down the days until Dog arrives for his “Sullivan Vacation!” It’s like an Advent calendar, only when you get to the end, instead of Santa and a bunch of toys, you get—a little white, fluffy dog!

Thank you, Sarah! You have no idea what it means to us to know that Sunny will be so incredibly loved while we are away.

Let’s just hope he’s not so much trouble that you have to make another calendar—Countdown until Sunny’s family finally comes home and we can get rid of this Dog.

The Power of Chicken Treats

(Sunny trying to break into the pantry where we store the big chicken treat bag.)

As much as we might like to believe that the love our dogs have for us is pure and sacred and unconditional, in our hearts we know the truth…It’s all about the food.

Sunny is a big foodie.

His tastes are particular, if not eccentric. Although we buy him only the best, organic, all-natural dog food, most days he prefers to leave the cold, dry kibbles languishing in his bowl in the hopes that something better will come along either by way of guilt-inducing begging or a careless drop of something yummy on the floor. (There’s no five-second rule in our house. If you drop it, it’s scarfed down before you have the opportunity to consider whether or not it is still edible.)

When we got Dog it was recommended that we feed him an egg yolk a day to help prevent eye problems common in his breed. So I dutifully micro-waved him an egg yolk every morning when he was a puppy. At first he gobbled them up, along with the dry food, because I dribbled the runny yellow all over it.

Soon he tired of plain egg yolk and I had to resort to mixing a little cheese into his breakfast. Omelet de la kibble. This is working since he has yet to tire of cheese—a trait that he and I enthusiastically share.

But his real weakness is chicken treats. I originally bought these because I thought they would be a “healthy” alternative to other kinds of treats with chemicals, additives, high-fructose corn syrup (oh, sorry, that’s the kids’ snacks I’m thinking about..). These are basically dried chicken breasts. How healthy is that? High protein, low fat…

But too much of a good thing can turn into a bad thing.

Soon, he was addicted. He would do anything for a chicken treat. His life was out of control and unmanageable. He needed to surrender his will to a higher power, but what power would that be? Rawhides? Beef bones?

I must confess, it's all my fault. I’m an enabler.

When Sunny was a puppy, we potty trained him by giving him a chicken treat whenever he went out to pee vs. peeing inside. But it wasn’t too long until we noticed that he spent a good part of the day scratching at the door, going outside, taking a teeny tinkle on a bush, then running enthusiastically inside to jump on the drawer where we keep the treats.

After a while, we got wise to this ruse and started giving him treats only for poops.

But Dog was smarter than us. We would let him out and he would run to the other side of the yard, loiter behind a bush for a while, and then come bounding in, heading straight for the treat drawer, with a look on his face that said, “Yeah, I pooped. Didn’t you see me? Oh, sorry, I guess the foliage was blocking your view. You should have been out there with me to witness that magnificent poop. But, hey, you can trust me. Now, come on, give up the treat!”

It wasn’t until our good friend, and total dog person, Ann kept him while we went on vacation and reported back to us that we realized the error of our ways.

“You’re giving him too many treats!” she scolded. “He’s getting fat!”

Shamed, and with only the good of the Dog in mind, I had to go with the tough love approach.

Now the chicken treats are doled out like methadone pills, only enough to stabilize him.

Otherwise he gets baby carrots for treats.

If he gets addicted to those, Dog help us, but at least they’re good for his eyes.

The Dog Cuddler

My husband, Jeff, is no Dog Whisperer, but he definitely has a special way with our dog.

One of the biggest and best surprises in this whole dog adventure is how much Jeff loves that little dog. No matter how late he’s worked (sometimes midnight!) or how exhausted he is when he gets home, he always takes a few minutes to play sock tug-of-war with Sunny and do a little rough play with him. “He’s a boy!” he says. “He needs some fight-and-bite.”

A few days ago I was amazed when Jeff (who hates to go shopping) stopped by the grocery store on his way home from work to pick up some big, hearty beef bones for the dog. Even though it was late and dark, he went outside and fired up the grill and cooked up those bones to give Sunny a special treat.

Later he told me later that he felt bad because the previous night he had brought the dog home a bone from his lunch of pork ribs, but he quickly realized the bone was too small and he had to take it away, afraid that Sunny might choke. The freshly grilled bone was his way of making amends.

While you might expect him to bond with the dog in the macho matters of play and food, the dog has also brought out a rare tender side of my husband.

The best story of all is when Sunny was a tiny puppy and he had just had his first set of vaccinations. At the time Sunny was sleeping in a large pen in our family room. (Now in his elevated position of Center of the Universe, he takes turns sleeping in bed with my son or on a big dog pillow in the master bedroom.)

The vet must have hit a tender spot, because the dog’s whimpering could be heard all the way upstairs. It was the middle of the night and I turned around to see if Jeff could hear the dog, too, but he was gone from the bed. (By the way, this man is the same champion sleeper who, when our daughter, Savannah was about a week old greeted me one morning exclaiming, “Wow! The baby slept through the night!” when, in actuality, I had fed and diapered the baby several times a mere inches from Jeff’s snoozing, immobile form.)

But, back to the crying dog.

When I tiptoed downstairs I found Jeff, sitting in the pen, cradling the pup in his arms, gently rocking him to sleep.

I guess I should have had puppies sooner.

Walking (the Dog) Meditation

“Your mind is like an untrained puppy, wandering all over the place, often making you miserable,” writes my good friend, MJ Ryan in The Happiness Makeover.

She goes on to say that training our mind is a lot like potty training a puppy; we must be aware of where our mind goes and put it back in the place where we want it to go. Then that neurological pathway becomes more automatic and we can become happier, more grateful, etc.

Intellectually I know that meditating, training my mind to be still and to go to a peaceful place is beneficial for all kinds of reasons. Yet, like eating green leafy vegetables and flossing my teeth and so many other things that are good for me, I resist.

Meditation is especially tough because the traditional idea of meditation involves sitting still (even better, in a lotus position, which is comfortable for about 30 seconds) and clearing my mind—two things that seem just about impossible for my overwhelmed, mind-chattering, multi-tasking, Type-A self.

Which is exactly why I NEED to meditate.

So, getting back to the disparity between puppies and meditation, I can see a little irony in the fact that I have decided to combine the two:

Several years ago I was at a wonderful “mindfulness” spa that taught a variety of meditation classes, including “walking meditation.”

Walking meditation is a way to meditate in movement. The experience of walking is the focus and instead of repeating a mantra, or struggling to “clear your mind,” you keep your awareness on the act of walking.

I’ve invented a new meditation—Walking the Dog Meditation.

This is how it goes:

Step One: Go to your computer and check e-mail and try to write and get busy and anxious with all the gazillions of things you have to do today.

Step Two: Dog wanders into your office, jumps on you, grabs your running shoe, goes back and forth to you and the door in an obsessive, frantic way with guilt-producing look of neediness.

Step Three: You realize you will never get anything done until you walk the dog.

Step Four: You don’t really feel like a walk, and you have way too many things to do, but you take the dog out anyway. You can't avoid looking around at the blue sky and the trees and feeling the sun on your skin and, in an instant, you realize what a gorgeous day it is and how lucky you are to have the time and freedom and healthy body to able to walk the dog.

Step Five: You thank God (or thank Dog) for this beautiful day, for the happy little dog that is totally enjoying living in the moment--relishing the simple act of peeing on every bush and pole--and for all the other blessings in your life.

Step Six: You walk, and as you walk, you might repeat a mantra or think of all the things you are grateful for or you may decide that this is a time to relax and not have to think at all.

Step Seven: If you decide to let all your problems go, very soon, and sometimes immediately, an answer to said problems will pop into your head—a genius solution that only the space of nothingness in your mind could allow this amazing, brilliant, extraordinary idea to burst forward.

Step Eight: You come home. Dog is exhausted and ready to sleep by your side and be your muse, while you are relaxed, invigorated, and ready to go forward with amazing idea.

This is my perfect meditation.