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...