We're Baaaack!!!

Dog, my muse, thinking, can you please finish this fricking novel so I can get back to sleeping in?!

I feel a Dog Blog coming on...

Apologies to the three or so regular readers of the Dalai Dog Blog who have expressed their discontent with the dearth of posts recently.

Dog and I have had a lot on our minds.

What with the broken toe, and school starting, and me, stupidly volunteering to be a room mom again, and the incessant watching of CNN during the election, and the evil opposing twins of puberty and perimenopause invading our formerly happy home—we are all out of whack!

Plus, November was National Novel Writing Month and I decided, pretty much impulsively, after a couple of glasses of wine at my Writers’ Group meeting, to write a 50,000 word novel in one month, which proved to be an excellent and timely exercise in creative abandon and testing my aptitude for writing Crap. And, let it be known, that writing 50,000 words of crap is the goal!

We all know that Nobody, not even Stephen King or Danielle Steele or John Grisham, can write a good novel in a month! So the whole idea of the month is to give aspiring writers explicit permission, even encouragement, to write badly, which is exactly what all writers must have in order to squash their inner critic and get a first draft actually written instead of just imagined.

It’s a quantity versus quality type of thing, which is such an awesome challenge for a crazy, Type-A, perfectionist, self-flagellating workhorse, like me. For one month, I could just write and write, as fast as my fingers could type, which was an absolute necessity in order to fit this novel into the rest of my life and keep the family from starving and in clean underwear for the duration of the month.

As usual, Dog was my muse. He contributed greatly by entering this weird new phase in which he would sit beside my bed and whine and cry at 5:30 am (or sometimes earlier!!!!) until I relented and got up with him. After I let him out to pee and fed him some kibble, and made myself coffee, I decided I might as well write since the house was quiet and I was up anyway! The moment I sat down at the computer, Dog curled up in his bed in my office, snoring away, content in fulfilling his purpose as my Doggie-writing-coach wake-up call.

And I did it!


50,111 words! And, just as they predicted, I think I actually wrote a few gold nuggets in the mound of crap that is the rest of the novel. Right now I have no expectations, but in January, I may read it all through and make some edits and see where it goes. Or not!

Stay tuned. There will be more tomorrow or the next day about Thanksgiving with Dog and Cameron and Speedo (oh, yes, and the rest of our families!) and the incident that will forever be known as The Day Dog Bit the Groomer, and Dog's ongoing saga of searching for true love.

Gratitude and the Broken Toe

I’m big on gratitude.

Nowadays, everybody from Oprah to The Secret is singing the praises and benefits of gratitude.

But the Grande Dame, the High Priestess of Gratitude is my good friend, the very smart, talented author, M.J. Ryan. Way back in 1999, M.J. wrote The Gratitude Bible, Attitudes of Gratitude: How to Give and Receive Joy Every Day of Your Life.

A few gems from the book:

“As we get older, we get schooled in our mistakes, and learn to focus on what’s NOT right, what is lacking, missing, inadequate, and painful. That’s why gratitude is so powerful. It helps us to return to our natural state of joyfulness where we notice what’s right instead of what’s wrong. Gratitude reminds us to be like plants, which turn toward, not away, from the light.”

“Gratitude is not just the key. It’s the magic key—all you need to do is to use it, and the world is suddenly transformed into a beautiful wonderland, in which you are invited to play.”

“Gratitude births only positive feelings—love, compassion, joy and hope. As we focus on what we are thankful for, fear, anger, and bitterness simply melt away, seemingly without effort.”

And, not only all of that, but as both New Age and Old Age sages agree, practicing gratitude brings more abundance into our lives!

I have a ritual. Every morning as I walk Dog, I start by thanking God for all the wonderful things in my life. The list is long: my family, our good health, my home, my beautiful neighborhood, the freedom to do what I love (writing) and the good fortune to both impact people’s lives and make money at it, and, of course, the smiling, rambunctious ball of fluff at the end of the leash. (Right about this time I usually have to stop and pick up poop, which is very grounding.)

As I take pleasure in the California weather and landscape and the joy of watching Dog romp in the wet grass, I forget minor slights and troubles. My to-do list melts away for a few sacred moments. It is a time of peace and happiness that I hope will set the mood for my day.

Of course, it’s easy to be grateful when everything is going great. The challenge is to be grateful when things suck.

Along these lines, I have another great teacher in my life, my friend, Rich, for whom life is not all butterflies and rainbows. Rich surprised me one day by telling me he was grateful for laundry!

Laundry!!! As any mom knows, laundry is one of the subversive banes of our existence. It’s never done! Even if you do every spec of laundry in the house—every towel, every sock, every single piece of underwear—at the end of the day, there’s more!

But Rich had a different take on laundry. He rented an apartment and had to go to the laundromat to wash and dry his clothes. Mostly, laundromats are not the most pleasant places to spend the couple of hours it takes to get the job done. Hot, crowded, smelly—sometimes even a little scary with the various characters hanging around who might have come straight out of central casting for an Elmore Leonard movie.

One day, Rich decided to be grateful--for having the good fortune to be alive, to own clothes to wash, for his healthy life in which to dirty those clothes and the quarters to do the laundry. Wow!

A Course in Miracles says that a miracle is a shift in perception. I'd say that qualifies.

So I began to bless every dirty pair of pants that my son had worn to school, every smelly sock from my husband's tennis games, every towel (and there were many!) that my teenage daughter soiled, and every tablecloth with the remnants of our Sunday family dinners.

Realizing that I could and should be grateful for laundry, something I had always looked upon with dread, changed my perception.

And, isn't that really The Secret? To look upon things in a new way? The alchemy of changing rocks into gold? Or piles of dirty clothes into a blessing?

And so, with that in mind, since I'm out of my Dog-walking ritual for at least a few more days, I decided to make a list:

Top Ten Things to Be Grateful About Breaking My Toe:

10) It gives me something to write about.
9) Since I can only wear one shoe, I am finally getting some use out of those lonely, single socks who have lost their mates.
8) My mom sent me flowers:


7) For the first two days I was in so much pain that I just sat around with my foot iced and propped up, watching the full first season DVDs of The Sopranoes while my kids ran wild and played video games and watched too much TV—and I didn’t even feel guilty!
6) I got the opportunity to realize and appreciate the people who love me: My husband who fetched me water and pillows to prop up my toe when I couldn’t sleep at 3 am; my son, who wrapped his beloved blankie around my neck to comfort me; my daughter, who hates to clean even more than me, who washed all the dishes and wiped the kitchen counters sparkling clean; and my wonderful friends, who volunteered to pitch in to help during my debilitation.
5) A phone call from my brother from Virginia to see how I was.
4) I have an excuse not to exercise, especially not to lift weights.
3) It could be worse. It’s not a life-threatening injury or illness. My toe will survive.
2) I scored some really awesome pain pills—although I have practiced amazing courage and self-control by only taking one so far.

And, the absolute best thing to be grateful for….

1) My husband and kids are walking Dog for me!

Crazy Dog Lady and The Broken Toe

Around town, I am known informally as Crazy Dog Lady. This is not a trite, superficial label, but one I am unreasonably proud of and I take quite seriously.

For example, I am not the kind of Crazy Dog Lady (CDL) who forces my pet into frilly pink faux-leopard frocks and smuggles him into trendy boutiques and hip restaurants in my Louis Vuitton handbag. (Although I AM guilty of sneaking him in a big, black, fake leather, free-with-purchase Lancôme tote bag into a birthday party at the local ice-skating rink when he was a tiny puppy because we had only had him for one day and I thought he would be too lonely left by himself at home.)

But, as to the aforementioned type of CDL, as Seinfeld would say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!” But Dog and I have a more profound, spiritual bond, based not upon our "image" or the fleeting notice and approval of others. (Also, Dog growled loudly and fiercely when we attempted to dress him up in a white jumpsuit and cape as Elvis Dog on his first Halloween. And he prefers to sit perched on the top cushion of our bedroom chair than to be confined in any type of bag—even a designer-type.) Dog is a free spirit and I honor and respect that about him!

No, I am the CDL who is crazy enough to put the dog’s needs above her own—most of the time. I’m the kind of CDL walks her dog every single morning, no matter what the weather or my personal deadlines or detriments—more reliable than the postman since, although we both deliver through rain, sleet and snow, I also am on duty 7 days a week, 52-weeks a year—even on Christmas Day!

As my neighborhood friends pass and wave in their Minivans and SUVs, promptly onto more productive endeavors like loading their dishwashers or dusting their miniblinds or laundering underwear or golfing in a club tournament. One odd morning when I had to work in my son’s class very early, I dropped by the grocery store for a quick trip before rushing home for my routine dog walk.

Running into a neighbor, she seemed as shocked to see me, at this hour, sans Dog, as if she’d spied me running out of the Motel 6 in black leather hot pants and fishnet hose, tossing an empty fifth of Maker’s Mark in the bushes before high-tailing it home to defrost Trader Joe's French Toast for the kids' breakfast.

“Where’s your dog?” she exclaimed! “Shouldn’t you be walking your dog now?”

I’ve also endured comments like, “Do you take your dog EVERYWHERE?” when I bring Dog along to pick up a kid from a playdate or a birthday party or as Dog and I wait in the carpool lane at school. And, my answer is, “Yes, I do take him everywhere I can." He loves to be with me and will go anywhere I want and be a happy, pleasant companion, which is more than I can say for other members of my immediate family who I cannot mention.

My Crazy Dog Lady persona really was highlighted on my birthday this year. Here is a sampling of my cards:







But, the grand, ultimate, completely over-the-top example of me being a Crazy Dog Lady was this week, when I stupidly dropped a 10-lb weight I was lifting on my toe, causing excruciating pain, much blood and a broken bone. (I thought of posting a photo, but I’ll spare you by asking you to imagine an overgrown, exceptionally ripe, slightly damaged red grape—that’s what my toe looks like!)

And what was my first thought? (Other than %*@&*$%%^&%!!!!)

Did I worry about the throbbing pain? Whether or not my toe would heal straight or end up as crooked, arthritic mess of a toe? Did I worry about losing my toenail (ouch!) or all the end-of-summer trips to museums and beaches that I would miss with my kids without the full use of my foot?

No. Truth is, my first thought was, “Who will take Dog for his walk?”

The Last Lecture

A tenuous connection to Dog at best, but still something I want to say….

For my birthday, two plus months ago, two different people gave me the book “The Last Lecture.”

I had heard about it and I knew that it was about a guy who was dying of cancer and his life lessons and that it was really inspirational.

I knew I wanted to read it, but I was in no rush, so both copies languished until we took a weekend trip in the car to Santa Cruz and I had a couple of hours to read uninterrupted.

The book was beautiful. Just enough ego to make it engaging and real, but simple, profound, wonderful lessons for life.

I highlighted several passages and made a note to watch the You-Tube video of the actual “Last Lecture.”

Then a couple of weeks later, I played the lecture on my laptop as I cleaned out my closet. (I am the ultimate multi-tasker.)

To see this man give this talk has to be one of the most transformative experiences ever.

There are no words. You must see it.

And know that every second of your life is one to be grateful for, and that living your dreams is really possible, and that going through brick walls is what you do when you really want something, and that helping others achieve their dreams is at least as good as achieving your own.

Wow!

So, the tenuous connection…

I met a friend today who has a lot of health and other problems. We like to meet once a week for what we call a “walk (dog) and talk.” Before we met I searched for one of the copies of the book to give him, but couldn’t find it in my mess of an office.

His response was that he must not be ready for the book. Still, I told him about the You-Tube video and how Randy had this amazing attitude in the face of everything.

This is the e-mail I received from him this afternoon:

I just turned on the computer and that last lecture guy passed on.

I knew he was dying, but somehow I had hoped he wouldn't. I have been praying for a miracle for Randy and his family, but it’s not going to be the miracle I imagined.

I'm unbelievably sad for someone I never met, yet felt I knew intimately. And, it sounds really corny to say this, but I am unbelievably grateful for the lessons that Randy Pausch gave us.

And I can't help but wonder how our lives, our worlds would be different if we were all in Randy's situation.

What if we had a finite time granted to live in good health before we left this world? How would we spend the time? What would we do? What would we say? Who would we say it to?

And, of course, do we have to go to the very brink of mortality to realize these things?

More Law of Attraction! Vision Boards!

Inspired by Oprah’s latest show on The Secret and my good friend, M.J. Ryan interviewing me for an article she is writing for Good Housekeeping about Affirmations, combined with the grand attempt to find some mutually fun, uplifting, soul-enriching activity for the kids and me this summer, I decided we all need to make Vision Boards!

For those of you who don’t live in California, or who aren’t regular Oprah viewers, a Vision Board is a visual representation of people, places, things, feelings or accomplishments that you dream of having in your life. You start with a big poster board and make a collage from magazine clippings, drawings and writings of all the things you want to happen in your life. The general idea is that you focus your energy on your "vision" and the “Law of Attraction” will manifest these things in your life.

Cool! And fun! Easy! Not like slogging through pages of tedious, loathsome, self-help exercises! Less like therapy and more like kindergarten—cut and paste! The more colors the better!

Instead of going to the dollar store to buy three poster boards for a buck, Carson and I ventured to Office Max to pay a premium $5.99 each for the half-inch thick, sturdy, high-end foamboards. I figured that was the least we could do to lay the foundation for our most magnificent dreams and wishes! I think Oprah would approve.

So we came home, magnificent boards in hand, magnificent dreams in our heads, cranked up the latest Jonas Brothers CD, spread magazines all over the family room floor, and started dreaming…

The boards are still a work in progress, but so far, Carson has his favorite band, The Jonas Brothers:


Who we are going to see in concert in two weeks!, so, really, he manifested his dream even before doing his Vision Board. Oprah producers, take note!

My board tended toward Beach Vacations and Lots of Words:


And, of course, my big career goal dream:


Dog, of course, could not be left out of such a fun-loving, life-affirming activity of the spirit. Since I neglected to buy a separate board for him and since he doesn’t have the opposable thumbs necessary for cutting pictures out of magazines, he was content with rolling around on my board, playing in one of my daughter’s old tu-tus.


Maybe his vision is to dance Swan Lake with the Bolshoi Ballet…

Could be. But my guess is that if Dog could do his own Vision Board, it would look something like this:


What does your Vision Board look like?

Dog's First Vacation!

This weekend signified a momentous occasion in the life of Dog—his very first official vacation!

Yes, Dog has traveled along with us to Grandma’s and houses of friends, but that doesn’t really count, does it? This time Dog was going on a real, for sure, destination-type vacation—to the beach! And sleeping, not on the humble floor of a friend or relative, but in a real hotel!

I hoped Dog’s experience would be a magical for him as it was for me--my first time, when, as a child traveling by car back from a vacation to visit relatives (the only kind we could afford), we were all tired before my dad could drive the long eight hours home and we decided to stop in at—luxury of all luxuries—a Holiday Inn!

At that point in my life, “Holiday Inn” was synonymous to “The Ritz”—each of them being completely out of my sphere of experience.

My mother still laughs, remembering me, running out of the bathroom, thrilled out of my mind at the very idea of the little, teeny soaps (free soap!) that they had waiting for us like they were little pieces of gold! (BTW, I guess old habits die hard, because I am still enamored of all the little sample toiletries, especially in a really nice hotel where you not only get soap, but all kinds of cool stuff like body butter, bubble bath and shower caps!)

I would have loved to have treated Dog to a really posh hotel, like the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons for his “first time,” but we were going to Santa Cruz and there were only about a half a dozen hotels that accepted dogs and only one with a vacancy—The Capitola Inn, it was!

Check-in time was 3 pm, so when we arrived at noon, we headed to the beach. I knew Dog would love it (the sandy volley-ball court in our neighborhood park was one of his favorite spots). The beach sand had to have a lot more fascinating smells, birds, discarded food to enhance his pleasure! We did three long walks, some seagull chasing, and lots and lots of exploratory sniffing. Dog was in heaven!

The rest of us—not so much. It turned out to be a foggy, cold day at the beach, the waves too rough for play and the wind too much for pleasurable lounging. We were worried about Dog getting too hot, but with this weather, not a problem! (Do you think he used his magic powers again?)

After we toughed out three hours at the beach, we headed to our hotel. We sat in the car while my husband checked us in. He came out and said, “They want to meet Dog.” I felt proud. I thought that my glowing description of him when making the reservation piqued their admiration and curiosity—that they felt they must meet this magnificent animal of which I spoke.

I did the mom spit-clean of his muzzle and paraded him in, ready to let him reign his charm over them. Turned out they just wanted to make sure he was under 25 pounds, per their rules:


The rules! So many rules for a dog-friendly hotel!

But, luckily, one of them did not forbid jumping on the bed. The very first thing Dog did upon entering the room was to take a flying leap onto one of the two queen beds. I guess because we were on vacation and they weren’t our beds, and he had paid an extra $20 for the privilege of having Dog in the room, my husband not only tolerated this, but actually encouraged it. Dog was in bliss.


Back to the rules—The most frightening, onerous of which was Rule Number 6:

Excessive noise or barking can result in guest being asked to leave.

Yikes! Dog is not much of a barker, but they gave us a room right next to the lobby and, at first, every time a guest would pass by, Dog’s guard-dog instincts would heighten, and bark, he would. The kids and I would descend on him, “Shhh, please, Dog, quiet, no barking,” petting his head in our feeble attempt to calm him.

Eventually, Rule Number 6, combined with Rule Number 7:

(Registered guest is responsible for any and all damages that may occur)

led to my husband staying in the room with Dog while the kids and I ventured to Capitola Village for dinner, which ended up being fine because my husband wasn’t hungry anyway and wanted to take a nap and we wasted a whole hour browsing in the high-priced, touristy gift-shops before we ate, which he would have loathed.

The rest of the vacation was somewhat uneventful, dare I say miserable? I got zero sleep—who knows why—too much light, not my bed, dog curled up, snoring on my shin?

Cold weather predicted for Sunday. As the kids and Dog and I “enjoyed” (which is a term I use somewhat facetiously) the free continental breakfast in the small freezing, early morning, outside patio, Carson, my optimistic, look-on-the-bright-side, go-with-the-flow adventurous guy said, as he sipped his hot chocolate, looking over, not at the ocean, but gazing at the suburban flora and fauna of our hotel, “Ah, this is the life!”

Then, Savannah, my no BS, sardonic child, said, “Yeah, It’s a cold life!” and I knew it was time to go home.

We barged into the room, woke up Jeff, packed up and were out of there before 10 am.

Looking back on the trip logically, analytically, it was a huge failure. Sucky weather. We thought we could leave dog in the room and go have a nice family dinner and that didn’t work out. We were pretty much freezing and worried about getting thrown out of our hotel room the whole time.

I wondered how I could get a theme out of this experience.

Yet, the cool thing is that, even as I’m writing this, I’m starting to get it. (Joan Didion said, "I write entirely to find out what I'm thinking, what I'm looking at, what I see and what it means.")

The vacation was way more fun because of Dog and watching him and his reactions and tending to him. The newness, the tail-wagging, his boundless enthusiam. Dog is never jaded. Dog is always excited. His joy is infectious.

So, Here’s The Grand Theme: Like many things in life, Dog is a huge amount of trouble, but also a great big boost for the soul. Dog forces us to live in the moment, to get out of ourselves, to enjoy and to fully experience life, to pay attention.

It’s corny, but it’s true and not just for Dog, but for most everything that means something—children, passionate work, a beloved spouse: Life with Dog is not easier, but it is richer, more colorful, more joyful.

Barbara and Me Part 2

(Continued) Because my editor is such a wonderful, dream-nurturing human being, (and maybe because I did her a big favor by helping her in a crunch and doing a last-minute story—that was so wonderfully-written, if I do say so myself, that the subject of the article actually sent my editor flowers!—and I promised her many future favor pay-backs) she agreed to let me go along with the reporter on assignment who is about 12 years old and probably thinks Barbara Walters is as interesting as a “History of Media” class that she slept through in college six months ago, but, as usual, I digress.

So, I blow-dried my hair and shaved my legs and tried on three different outfits and made very complicated arrangements for the kids and power-skimmed the book, making up thoughtful, insightful questions. No pressure—I mean what do you ask the Queen of Interviews?

I arrived at 5:05—a full 35 minutes before the scheduled time, to make sure that traffic or parking would not get in the way of my golden dream moment.

There was already a huge crowd outside of the bookstore. Mostly middle-agey women (like me) over-dressed in colorful sundresses and little kitten heels (like me) and clutching books with the little purple slip of paper that indicated the book had been purchased at that bookstore—a prerequisite for entrance and an audience with La Walters.

I was never so happy to be a member of “the press.”

I strode right past them into the store.

“I’m here from the Danville Weekly,” I told the bookstore owner, expecting the crowds to be parted, to be ushered in to a separate, air-conditioned room, while waiting for Barbara to arrive, even though I had spied a big-time stretch limo on the corner and suspected that the author was already there.

“I’m sorry,” the bookstore owner said brusquely, “Press time is over. She wanted to start early.”

What?

But, she wasn’t supposed to see the press until 5:40.

“She. Wanted. To. Start. Early. There. Is. Nothing. I. Can. Do.”

What would Barbara Do? (WWBD)

Would she push ahead, demanding her right to an interview? Or, more likely, as I know after reading her memoir, would she charm and cajole her way through the pack.

I didn’t seem capable of either. It would appear that I didn’t have the right stuff to be a world-class journalist like Barbara.

But, later, after reading the book, I did get one reassuring glimpse of a mortal Barbara when she described her first press junket to accompany Jackie Kennedy on a trip to India and Pakistan in 1962.

“I did have one momentous breakthrough in Pakistan when Jackie was visiting a monument. ‘Mrs. Kennedy, there’s a bobby pin falling out of your hair,’ I said to her. She turned, smiled at me, and said, ‘Thank you.’ That was it. My exclusive interview.”

Realizing my exclusive interview was not to be, I got in line with the other 199 people hoping for a special moment.

When it was my turn, I asked Barbara where Cha-Cha (her beloved Havanese dog) was and I told her that I also had a Havanese dog who I was nuts about.

Despite her very hurried, necessarily detached manner, Barbara looked at the picture I had brought along, brightened up for a moment and said, “They have these little cute legs.” Then, back to business, she signed my book “Barbara Walters” (no personalizations!) in very perfect, tiny script, and moved along to the next person.

So, like too many dreams come true, this one was more than a little disappointing.

My husband said I should have brought Dog along. Barbara would have melted. I think he was right.

p.s. A couple of side notes:

Barbara looked fabulous, even better (and thinner!) in person than on TV.

And calm. She says that one of the secrets to her success on TV is that she never sweats and that must be true. It was 101 degrees outside and she was (sorry for the cliche) cool as a cucumber.

And, as disconcerting it was for the press (me, in particular), she was smart and kind to begin her signing early. With the extreme heat, she may have avoided some serious medical issues like heatstroke among the crowds.

Alas, I have no photos of Barbara, but here are some photos of the scene. As I was driving by and writing this blog in my head and suddenly realized I needed some pictorial evidence:


A side shot of Barbara's humongous stretch limo. Babs must have quite a posse to fill up that car!


A small piece of the amazing crowd that braved the 100+ degree weather to see Barbara.

And, this is my favorite photo, because after driving by really slowly and taking a bunch of pictures, I think the crowd thought I was paparazzi! As if!

Barbara and Me

Barbara Walters and I both have little Havanese dogs who we adore.


(Barbara's beloved Cha-cha)

And, that’s about all we have in common.

When it comes to intrepid reporting, fearless questioning, breaking the mold, going where no woman has gone before, Barbara is the pioneer—the master.

Me, not so much.

Meeting Barbara Walters has been a dream of mine since I was a little girl. In the fifth grade, I read the biography of Nellie Bly, the ground-breaking, feminist reporter of the late 1800’s, and I immediately knew that I wanted to be a journalist. Other than Nellie, Barbara was the best role model I had—a symbol of possibilities as I watched her on “The Today Show” and later
as the first woman ever to co-anchor a network news broadcast.

Barbara is my Michael Jordan, my Bill Gates, my Mother Theresa—the person who had reached the absolute pinnacle of the mountain I so wanted to climb.

So when I heard that BARBARA WALTERS would be appearing at a bookstore only 20 minutes from my home, I was the first to call and reserve my copy of her memoir, ordering a priority ticket ($13, plus the hardcover price of the book, to be one of the first lucky 200 people in line to meet her!) I was hoping that this premium might garner perhaps a moment or two to speak with my idol, maybe even a quick photo for my mantel.

But when I went to pick up my ticket and book the day before the event, I discovered that a) they expected 900 people! and b) no photographs were allowed—absolutely, positively, no exceptions. I began to think that this would not be my dream meeting after all.

Then I had a brilliant, if late-breaking idea. I freelanced for the local newspaper! I had just this week written their cover story! The editor owed me a favor! I called her and when she said that they had a press credential and Barbara was meeting with the media for a full 20 minutes before the signing—from 5:40 to 6:00, I literally BEGGED for her to reassign it to me, or to at least let me tag along.

(To be continued.)

The Grass Is Always Greener and the Top Pillow is Always Comfier (Part Three)

It was Sunday—my night to settle in with the big-screen TV in the family room for my weekly guilty-pleasure appointment TV--Desperate Housewives.

Since my husband can’t tolerate DH (unlike other husbands I know who put up with the silly melodrama for the tacit permission to ogle all those gorgeous women and all that exposed cleavage) he moved upstairs into the master bedroom to watch something surely more intellectually edifying (this was before the debut of his new top favorite, Denise Richard’s reality show, which just goes to show that even my History-Channel-loving, physics-book-reading husband can be swayed by a hot woman with a nice rack, and, yes, he did marry me, after all, but, as usual, I digress).

During a commercial, I ran upstairs to quickly brush my teeth and witnessed a scene more startling than the tornado on Wisteria Lane!

The two of them, man and beast, at peace, snuggling up together ON THE CHAIR!

I wish I had a photo, but, alas, I was too stunned to think clearly about the huge ramifications of this small act.

“What are you doing? I thought you didn’t want Dog on the chair!”

“He really wanted up,” my husband said without a hint of shame or embarrassment about flagrantly breaking his own rule, all the while tenderly petting Dog’s furry, little head. “He gave me that look.” Enough explanation, as I well knew.

It was clear that if we wanted to maintain our consistent Alpha Dog control (and I know you are laughing here), we could not forbid Dog on the chair any longer.

We compromised by allowing Dog to sit on the bedroom and family room furniture as long as it was covered up with an old, red blanket.



We moved that blanket from room to room as we moved--making sure that Dog would understand the rule.

Dog was content for a while, but, like all intelligent, ambitious (dare I say, “ego-driven”?) beings, he wanted more. An adventurer, he was driven by a quest to conquer unexplored frontiers.

Soon, he was not only jumping on the covered chairs in the bedroom or family room, but the living room furniture (which we don’t even let the children sit on unless it’s Christmas!). His final act of rebellion and incursion happened when he insisted on perching himself on the very top of the chair’s back cushion—claiming as his dominion, surely the most comfy, plush spot in the entire house.



This, as you can imagine has caused a whole new set of debates in our household.

But this time, I am not to blame.

There is only one person who could have encouraged this outrageous behavior. Only one person in the entire world who could be so indulgent, so utterly, hopelessly in love with Dog that there are no limits or boundaries at all where Dog is concerned.

If you’re a regular blog reader, the answer is quite obvious:



Thanks a lot, Cameron!

The Grass Is Always Greener and the Top Pillow is Always Comfier (Part Two)

As you may have guessed by now, my husband and I differ on the upbringing of Dog.

I feed Dog scraps of bacon and make sure that he is walked in the morning--no matter how crazy/busy my schedule is. I love Dog and, while I can't exactly say I put him first, I do give his needs and desires serious consideration above my own.

I realize that Dog is a lot like my children, somewhat helpless, dependent on my kindness for even the most basic of needs like food and…well, food is Dog’s basic need. I feel responsible.

I tend to empathize with Dog and advocate to my husband on his behalf, much like I do with the kids:

“I know Carson didn’t practice his guitar tonight, but he had three pages of homework and baseball practice and then had to go to his sister’s choral concert. Let's give him a break.”

“Even though Savannah went to Disneyland with the choir last year, all her friends are going again this year and she’s willing to pay for half the cost of the trip from her savings and Christmas money. I think we should let her go.”

And with Dog, “I think he likes to lie on your nice Alpaca rug because it reminds him of his mother. He gets comfort from the feel of the rug. How can we deny him that?“

I have read enough parenting books to know that you have to be consistent with children, and I try to be consistent, both with the kids and with Dog. Consistently indulgent, but still…

On the other hand, my husband talks a mean talk—all discipline and rules and toughness. But he’s really a big softie, especially when it comes to Dog.

When Dog started jumping on the chair in our bedroom,

my husband at first got mad, moved him off the chair and forbid him to lie there ever again.

Dog is no dummy. And he has a lot of discretionary time in his day, with nothing to do but eat and sleep and plot his devious plan for world domination, which all begins with the manipulation of his immediate humans.

So we would notice that Dog would start out the night on his perfectly nice, comfy, beautifully coordinated round dog pillow.


But when we woke up in the morning, Dog had surreptitiously moved in the middle of the night to the chair. What to do? My husband blamed me. I was too easy on Dog. I treated him like a human. I let him get away with murder. I had no defense. I was weak, an easy mark, dependent upon my husband to lay down the law, the keep the order in the house among humans and beasts.

Then one night I was surprised at what I found.

To be continued.

The Grass Is Always Greener and the Top Pillow is Always Comfier

Or, How I Am Probably the Only Person in the World to Ever Un-Crate-Train a Dog


Dogs are den-dwelling animals and advocates claim that a crate can become a den substitute.

I am more than a little uncomfortable admitting this publicly.

Among virtually all dog-breeders and experts and many, many devoted, loving dog-owners, I would be considered a pariah—indulgent, wrong-headed—possibly even selfish. All because…

I don’t believe in crate-training.

Let me explain…

We began our life with Dog in a very naïve, yet civilized fashion. Because he is highly intelligent and was raised, by-the-book, with discipline (and love) by his Grandma Claudie, he was perfectly crate-trained from the very first night we brought him home at the tender age of 10 weeks.

And, although among the many reasons we fell in love with Sunny were his cute face and his playful disposition, I can’t deny that the tipping point was my husband. He was enamored by seeing Sunny crawl into his crate on command and go to sleep without a whimper of rebellion.

Perhaps my husband’s orderly, engineer self envisioned finally having some measure of control in our family, which skews towards the somewhat chaotic, messy, go-wth-the-flow nature of the matriarch—yours truly.

In our house, the crate thing lasted—oh, not at all. Since I was basically in charge of the dog and I am not by nature very rules-based, all his good training was wasted on me. (Except for the important stuff like potty-training, which I was very consistent about and Sunny learned quickly.)

The funny thing about a dog crate is that everyone (and I have had more people tell me this than I can count) says, “Oh, the dog loves it, he feels safe in there—it’s his little ‘den.’ Just like in the wild. It’s their nature.”

But the thing is, wild dogs can go in and out of their den as they please. It is not “their nature” to be locked up inside a little plastic box at the whim and convenience of some arbitrary humans.

Here’s another view on crate-training, from Steven Lindsay’s “Handbook of Applied Dog Behavior and Training”:

"Many advocates of long-term crate confinement claim that dogs are phylogenetically preadapted to live in a crate. These conclusions are based on various fallacious assumptions derived from inappropriate comparisons with the use of dens by wild canids and feral dogs.

In reality, a crate has far more in common with a trap (or grave) than it does with a den. Further, a den actually has far more in common with a home, the natural environment of a dog, providing access to communal indoor and outdoor living spaces via a two-way door. An obvious distinction between a den and a crate is physical entrapment, isolation, and inescapability.

While the den provides the mother with the seclusion and security that she needs to deliver and care for her young, it does not restrict her freedom of movement, as the crate does. Instead of providing a safe environ for her young, the crate serves the express purpose of separating the dog from social attachment objects.

After learning that the crate is inescapable, however, dogs appear to treat the crate in a paradoxical manner analogous to persons affected by the Stockholm syndrome; that is, they appear to form strong attachments with the crate, which becomes the place they identify as home."

I only just came across this as I was writing this blog post, but Yaw-Zah! This totally resonates with me!

When I got Dog home, no matter what I read or heard telling me otherwise, the crate felt too restraining--not right to me. And hypocritical. If you want to lock your dog up in a crate because you work all day and don’t want the dog chewing and peeing on your furniture, just say so, for Dog’s Sake. Don’t try to justify it by saying it's the dog's nature.

I wanted my dog to have free will. So, I figured we’d put the crate, door-open inside of an exercise pen with piddle pads all around. If Dog really did like the crate better and feel more comfortable there, he had the choice to go in or out. The first few hours we had him, whenever he would get too tired, he would happily crawl into the crate.


With the door open and freedom beckoning, this didn't last long. An anecdotal study of the attraction of freedom vs. safety. With a subject of one, the conclusion was clear.

Dog soon discovered the diversity and richness of the world beyond the crate.

And we realized all the possibilities and consequences of “free will" in Dog terms.

(To be continued.)

Passion and Science and Intuition and Dogs

So tonight my husband and I had our totally embarrassingly, old-fogey weekly TV date to watch 60 Minutes—the only show on all of the 293,468 cable network channels on 24/7 (and if you multiply those numbers, the possibilities are almost infinite!) that we can both agree to tolerate together. (My taste runs to Desperate Housewives and Survivor—His to Star Trek and the History Channel. I guess it’s true that opposites attract…)

Anyway, the second story of the show was all about Howard Hughes and this huge endowment that his medical center has. A little snippet of the segment was about this one brilliant scientist who was once upon a time studying frog development, then he had a son who was diagnosed with juvenile diabetes and how he immediately changed his scientific quest to find a cure for his son’s condition.

The point that 60 Minutes was making was that because the Howard Hughes medical institute is privately funded, and researchers don’t need to fill out a gazillion forms to get money, this guy could change his research focus on a dime.

And I said, “How, cool! This guy is now free to research something for which he is absolutely passionate!” The scientist is not just working for intellectual curiosity, or peer review, but for his very own son’s life!

Then my husband, (who it must be said, has a Ph.D. in Computational Fluid Dynamics—basically the way things move around in space--and has worked for NASA and the Lawrence Livermore Laboratory, and has a button that a friend gave him that proclaims, “Why, Yes, I am a Rocket Scientist”) said, ‘That’s exactly what all science should be—about passion.”

And we were momentarily in agreement.

Then he added, “If I were to study something that I was absolutely passionate about, I would want to figure out how we could make dogs speak. Wouldn’t you love to know what Dog was thinking?”

Besides giving me a bit of the creeps, I felt like this was one of those science experiments that wasn’t really necessary, a little too obvious—like studying how toting guns in your car may make you more prone to road rage.

And I said, “Save the money. I know exactly what Dog is thinking. ‘Cheese, Treats, Walk. Cheese, Treats, Walk.”

My scientist husband laughed.

A Dog By Any Other Name, Still Smells….Well, Like a Dog

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet."
Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

I took Dog to my daughter’s softball game the other day. When the game was over, Savannah rushed out of the dugout to greet him with an exuberant, “Hi, Dog!” while furiously petting his furry, little head. Then I looked at him and said, “Time to go, Dog!”

And one of the girls on the team looked at us as if we were a little bit crooked in the head and said, incredulously, “Did you name your dog ‘Dog’?”

Savannah and I just looked at each other, and then at Dog—a secret, crazy joke between us--and started laughing.

Actually, Dog’s official, pedigreed name is “Delrio’s California Sunshine of Los Perritos,”



but that’s a cumbersome moniker to call out when you want him to hurry up and jump off the couch

or quit chewing on your shoe.

When we first got Dog, we spent many days brainstorming the perfect name for him.

We considered Simba (because he looked a little like a white lion), Piddle (because he did a lot of that the first couple of weeks), and Max (because, like Jacob and Emily, that's a popular name these days.)

After about two weeks, with no clear winner--lazy, procrastinating, unimaginative family that we are—we took the path of least resistance and decided to keep the name that his breeder, Grandma Claudie, gave him, “Sunny.” After all, he does have sunny little personality.

But, in our family, official names don’t mean much.

My husband and I refer to each other almost exclusively as “Honey-Pie” and “Spoon.” We only use “Kathy” and “Jeff” when we are either angry or really serious, which is not often.

These days we call Savannah, “Tock,” which began with her little brother calling her “Sissy,” which, because of toddler pronunciation issues, morphed into “Ticky,” then to “Tick-Tock,” and finally to “Tock.” I feel a little silly writing this little family version etymology. (For the record, at various times, she has also answered to “Extra” for “extra special,” “Triple-chocolate” for her bittersweet, non-vanilla personality, and “pumpkin,” just because.)

We lovingly refer to Carson as “Bean” or “Super Bean,” which comes from “Cocoa Bean” (the origin of which is debatable: His sister suggests that it was because his head was so large and round, which I don’t think was meant to be a compliment and is perhaps due to her newly adolescent hormonal state, and that’s all I’m saying about that. My husband seems to remember making up a song, “Cocoa Banana” to the tune of that unforgettable Barry Manilow hit, “Copacabana”—all because it rhymed with “Savannah.” I truly think my engineer husband missed his calling as a songwriter for Sesame Street, and that's all I'm saying about that as well.)

Sometimes his sister calls him “Beanhead.” Once she was severely reprimanded by her father for this. “That’s not very nice!” he said.

“But, he likes it,” she responded, and, sure enough, he nodded furiously in agreement, sealing his family nickname for posterity.

When Dog was a puppy, I instinctively called him “Baby.” That eventually became “Baby Dog” for all the reasons I have written about here. and here and here. But now that he is two and a half years old and quite the hefty, or as we prefer to think of it, “big-boned, muscular” animal, that name doesn’t quite fit, so we have reverted to the simple “Dog.”

I think in part I call him Dog to remind myself that even though he feels like a person to me (a person in a fur coat as some people have remarked), he is, after all, a dog.

And when he acts like a dog—digging in the trash for tasty leftovers, going outside to bury his bone and getting a muddy muzzle

right after his bath, or standing by the side of my chair and looking manipulatingly forlorn and letting out the slightest whimper while I eat my bar-b-que tri-tip dinner, I can’t get mad.

While any one of these behaviors would be appalling or at least frustrating in our human companions, we just smile, because despite his keen intelligence and winning personality and our desire to ascribe human emotions to him, he is essentially a dog.

In real life, unlike in Shakespeare, the sweetness of the rose depends upon the name it bears. Things are not only what they are. They are, in very important respects, what they seem to be.
Hubert Humphrey

I’m not entirely sure exactly what that means. But, it seemed like a good way to end. And something to think about.

For Dog's Sake! An Update!

For Dog’s Sake! Can you believe I have posted anything in almost two months? It’s not for lack of activity and excitement around here!

As a matter of fact, we could have had our own reality TV show lately with all the drama:

There's the romance of Rock of Love as Dog is tempted by yet another blond, (actually, even better, a pair of blonds—a mother and daughter who were so desperate for Dog’s attention that they drove over to our house to pick him up for a date! Dog has no money, band or limo—he is loved for his white, fluffy personality alone. Bret Michaels, eat your heart out!)


Watch out, Cameron!

We could have used a little help from The Dog Whisperer when Dog chewed off the arm of one of my son, Carson’s beloved stuffed animals. As I tried to console Carson, promising to sew the appendage back on, “good as new,” he cried and repeated, “Not the Same, Not the Same.”

Of course, he was right. The Purple Penguin would never be the same again. Touched by tragedy, like the Velveteen Rabbit or Edward Tulane, he would be forever transformed—more real, wise and grateful, as we all are when whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. All was forgiven and Carson named the penguin, “Survivor.”


We could have used a little help from Extreme Home Makeover when, in anticipation of my mother-in-law’s visit to celebrate her 75th birthday, I decided to re-carpet our entire upstairs!

We worked furiously one weekend, moving everything that was not nailed down from upstairs to downstairs, creating a chaos in the living/dining room and hallway that was meant to be a gigantic, one-day mess. On Monday, the carpet company messed up the delivery day, tried to recover by delivering the wrong carpet.

I cancelled the order, prayed they would refund my payment (they did) and lived with the chaos for two weeks while we waited for carpet from another company to be installed. Luckily, my mother-in-law has a sense of humor and didn't mind celebrating her birthday amidst cardboard boxes filled with toys and underwear and socks.

Then, maybe not a reality show, but a little ER drama when Dog got a bad boo-boo on his leg and when I took him to the vet they discovered an ear infection! So Dog was on two different kinds of antibiotics for two weeks. I had to hide the pill antibiotic in a cube of cheese and feed him additional cheese to persuade him to allow me to squirt the antibiotics into his ear, so he has gained a bit of weight...

The good news is that I took him to the vet yesterday and he is all-clear and healthy, so we've cut down on the cheese and we're upping the walks. Dog and I need to start a regular Work Out, to get into shape for summer!

Stay posted: There will surely be more real-life drama to follow. And I promise to quit watching so much TV and be more diligent about writing all about it.

The Girls of Sunny

We’ve all heard of the Girls of Summer, but do you know about the Girls of Sunny?

From the Aerosmith song (slightly adapted):

When winter hearts turn summer pink
In half the time it takes to blink
But it all depends on what'you think
About the girls of Sunny

When all you think of all day long
Is a pretty face inside a song
With a thought like that you can't go wrong
About the girls of Sunny

They get'you climbin' the walls
They get'you caught in their spell
They get'you speakin' in tongues
Could this be Heaven or Hell
To fall in love twice a day
Is such a sweet price to pay

Sunny fell in love all over again THREE times today, working his magnetic magic! (We really must get him a spot in the next “The Secret” movie.)

Cameron was feeling blue, so we made a date to meet for coffee. I thought I would surprise her with a little Fluffy White Dog therapy.




If I could only bottle Dog Therapy, I could put Prozac out of business overnight.


But first, I had to stop in at the bookstore and pick up a book. And who pulled into the parking lot at the exact same moment as us?


Dog shamelessly accosting Ann in the parking lot.

Dog’s other Big Love, Auntie Ann, who took care of and loved Dog when we went away on our very first vacation without him. Much crying ensued.

And, if that weren’t enough excitement for one day, I had forgotten to give Cameron a book I promised to let her borrow over coffee, so after picking up the kids from school, we headed off the Cameron’s house, where Sunny was greeted with hugs and kisses by the ultimate dream team of male dogs everywhere—twin blonds!


Cam and her wonderful blond twins.

It doesn’t get any better than this. Here’s to the Girls of Sunny!

Perfect Peace

After spending a long, exhausting morning defending me from the very nice, young, sweet, not-threatening-at-all plumber who came to fix the leak in our bathtub today, Dog can finally rest. (As I have mentioned before, Dog loves most everybody, except for UPS delivery people and repairmen.)

He was so dog-tired that he didn’t even notice when I ripped open the plastic on a brand new bag of cheese and micro-waved myself a chicken quesadilla for lunch. The sounds and smells of his favorite foods could not disturb his slumber.

Expending all your energy, doing work that you feel has meaning and purpose in the service of love…and then relaxing, content with what you have accomplished—that is the essence of Perfect Peace.

And The Oscar Goes To...

Dog, for the best performance of a canine creature who has some kind of weird psychic ability to manipulate time and space and circumstance, and then, be so incredibly charming and down-to-earth likable that you just have to give him the award!

(Now that I think about it, Dog reminds me A LOT of George Clooney,



although Oscar night worked out better for Dog than for Clooney this year.)

(And, although I liked George MUCH, MUCH better in the Ocean movies and ER than in Michael Clayton, I must admit that George looked totally HOT at the Academy Awards, and my guess is that if Cameron would have been the sole judge, he would have won, but we all know what a pushover Cameron is for a great smile and a little animal magnetism.)

But, as usual, I digress. The real point here is…There Are No Coincidences.

Dog continues to amaze and freak me out just a little bit with his New-Agey, “The Secret”-type powers.

Some people who read this are going to think that I am totally over the deep-end. Some will get it. And, like a memoir of addiction or other specific, unique experience that you can only understand if you have “been there,” others that will read this and think, “Thank God, I am not the only one.”

My version of the first step of the traditional 12-step program is “I admit that I am powerless when it comes to Dog. My life has become unmanageable.”

A little background of the past week or so….I’ve been feeling guilty. I’ve been sick with a lingering cold. It’s been raining like crazy. Dog has been getting, maybe one teeny walk a day, which is quite obviously not enough for a rambunctious dog like himself.

And when Dog drags me along on those teeny walks to Cody’s house, begging for a playdate, I selfishly resist because of the residue of muddy paw-prints in the living room from their last rainy-day playdate.

Although I had been fighting a cold and it was drizzling heavily on Sunday morning, I walked Dog, trying to urge him under the umbrella and out of the mud.

I knew the walk was important because we were committed to going to an Oscar party at my very fabulous friend’s house and Dog would be left alone later. My friend has a little, white, fluffy dog who we all love and normally we take Dog along when we go there for dinner, but, for this gathering there would be too many people, and I know that Dog can be the teensiest bit of trouble, especially where Cheese appetizers and People and Fluffy Female Dogs are involved, so the plan was to I leave Dog home alone.

So, Dog, who had not had that much exercise/attention over the last few days, would be forced to spend probably five hours alone in the dark (ok, I leave a light on for him), empty house. I know this is the fate of many dogs, and many dogs may rejoice that they are alone in the house and can sleep on the good couch with nobody around to shoo them off, but Dog is not used to this and I always think of of all the Havanese Websites that I found after we got Dog, all saying something along the same lines of:

This is a sturdy active breed that loves its family. They do not do well left alone and thrive when they are the center of your universe.

So, it's not just me! Just as I’m feeling guilty about leaving Dog alone for so long, Dog or the Universe or our collective subconscious creates magic…

One hour before we had to leave for our party, who do you think called me on her cell-phone? Who, other than a life-size chicken treat, would Dog most like to see materialize as a result of his magnetic thoughts? Cameron, of course!

We had ordered a ridiculous number of Girl Scout cookies and Cameron’s twins wanted to see Sunny when they delivered them, so they were on their way over to our house.

When they brought the cookies, as Dog jumped and cried and licked Cameron and her daughters with glee, I whispered that we would have to leave Dog alone for a few hours that evening and if they wanted a “playdate” that would be ok with us. Cameron and gang were thrilled with the coincidence.

So, I enjoyed the party, not thinking of Dog at all, knowing that he was having the time of his life. We picked him up after the party and we were all happy—Dog for all the attention, me for knowing he was loved and well-cared for while we were gone, the Sullivans for having a spontaneous playdate, and our party hosts, for not having a crazy Dog running around stealing goat cheese off of their coffee table and ruining their party.

My question for Dog is “How do you do it?”

And, p.s., George, if you are interested, Dog and I can give you a really good deal on some consulting about this "The Secret" thing in time for next year's Oscars.

Don't Get a Dog!

Today I was walking Dog in the park and we came across a mom with three little kids. Dog, being the social, party animal that he is, immediately assailed the kids.

“Hey! Sniff, sniff! You smell like you’ve spilled some food on yourselves! Cool!” I imagined him thinking as he proceeded to lick the remnants of lunch from their clothes and hands and mouths.

Then they played that familiar game of “I want you, No I don’t,” as a toddler reached out his hand like he was going to give Dog a big, happy pet on the head, and then, at the last second he pulled away, running and giggling. Dog loved it! Playing hard-to-get works! The little boy teased, then ran fast away and Dog chased him like a rabbit.

The weary mom, with eyes that conveyed a glimmer of hope of deliverance in a furry package, turned to me and said, “That’s what I need! A dog like this that will tire the kids out!”

Uh, oh…

And then she proceeded to talk to me about dogs, and the idea of getting a dog, and questions, questions, questions…

Which brings me to my point. If anyone asks me if they should get a dog, I always same the same thing. Don’t do it!

Whenever the subject of puppies wags its fluffy tail, you always hear the same old admonitions--they pee on your carpet and chew up your favorite slippers and cry all night when you try to make them sleep in a crate. But those are merely minor inconveniences.

The real reason you should never, ever get a dog is that life as you know it will completely change. You will worry and obsess and feel guilty when you have to leave the house. You will have outrageous bills for crazy things that you can’t now imagine like LL Bean goose-down doggie beds and stomach-pumping vet bills when your dog devours a whole Chocolate Easter bunny left carelessly within jumping range.

Your freedom will be a thing of the past. You won’t be able to jet off to Tahiti on a whim or have sex on the kitchen floor. (But, of course, as Meg Ryan says in When Harry Met Sally, “We never really did that anyway.”)

Oh, all the clichés are true, of course. And people love to compare puppies and babies. Like children, dogs bring joy and playfulness and laughter to our sometimes too-serious grown-up lives. And, along with all the trouble, the the love can be overwhelming and astonishing and totally worth it—if you are ready for that kind of surprise and sacrifice.

And, although, with children, it mostly turns out ok, even if (like me) you have absolutely no clue what it really means to be completely responsible for another living being that depends on you for everything. With kids, once you plunge ahead, there is no easy way out. After six months, you can’t just dump your offspring in a shelter because the baby is way more work than you ever imagined. You pretty much have to go ahead and finish the job of parenting, or go to jail or hire a really good nanny or do a half-assed job of it and have to deal with the guilt and sorrow of having your kids turn out bad or maybe even writing a terrible memoir about their childhood.

So, it mostly turns out ok with kids, because we are forced into finishing what we start, and also because we human beings are at least a teeny bit narcissistic. We see our kids, a little bit of our own DNA with our nose or the frown of our brow or even our own muley personality and we love them because we desperately want to love ourselves but we don’t know how, or it feels a little too embarassing. Having a child, somewhat in our own image, gives us the chance to heal, to love the parts of ourselves that we resist. To see the spark of the light and brilliance and possibility in our flaws (or in spite of our flaws) that we are normally too harsh and self-loathing and critical to imagine.

So, even though you have absolutely no idea what is in store for you when you venture into parenthood, you will most likely do ok.

With Doggie Parenthood, not so much.

Because, as much as we love our dogs and identify with them and believe that they are our children, they are not. And, it’s much easier to get away with being selfish with a dog than with a child. Dogs can look at you with those big, brown, liquid, longing eyes, but they can’t verbalize, “Mom, how come you work so much? I could use a little more quality time, here.”

And you pretty much don't have to worry about what other people think. There are no mothers from the preschool class judging what a good doggie parent you are--whether you offer snacks with partially hydrogenated oils or let the dog watch too much TV.

No social service agency is going to knock on your door if you leave your dog in a pen for hours on end or never take him for a walk. You can neglect a dog in so many ways without getting arrested or even raising the ire of your friends and neighbors.

And, so much more so than children, dogs are forgiving. (And they don't have opposable thumbs, so you don't have to worry about them penning that nasty memoir on your computer.) You can let them down in so many ways and they will still love you--still come rushing to the door when to greet you as if you are some rock-star combination of The Dog Whisperer and the neighborhood butcher.

Dogs can be an easy path to the most selfish benefits of love, even if you neglect messy parts, like giving of yourself freely and caring more about the other person (or dog) than yourself, that make love the amazing spiritual journey that it is. Unlike parenthood, you don’t become a dog owner by mistake. You must make a conscious decision to sacrifice and learn and grow and love a little bit too much.

And, that’s exactly why you should never convince someone to get a dog. Talk them out of it. Tell them how much trouble a dog is. How much work dogs are and emphasize potty-training. (which, like the idea of changing diapers, tends to spook the timid and the uninitiated.)

So, whatever you do, Don't Get a Dog.

And, if you ignore my advice, you could possibly be in for the most marvelous, expensive, frustrating, troublesome, time-consuming, joyous experience of your life. But, don't say I didn't warn you.