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?

************************************************************

“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.