The Dalai Dog

We All Need a Purpose

2010-04-01T18:47:00.000-07:00

“The best moments in our lives are not the passive, receptive, relaxing times… The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile."…
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience

Purpose in life is what it’s all about—even, especially, when it is hard. Purpose makes the hardest, longest days, the most unimaginable pain, not just bearable, but noble.

And a sense of purpose also makes the most trivial, mundane things we do, not only tolerable, but meaningful.

As Saint Therese, who is known as The Little Flower, taught, what is important to do is simply the ordinary things of life, but to do them with extraordinary love.

“You know well enough that Our Lord does not look so much at the greatness of our actions, nor even at their difficulty, but at the love at which we do them.” St. Therese

Whether your purpose is to write the Great American Novel or to rescue orphans in Haiti or simply to raise children who recycle and don’t burp at the dinner table, a sense of purpose helps us get through the tough stuff that might bury us otherwise.

While we may dream of lying on the beach, drinking Pina Coladas, snoozing and reading People Magazine, I doubt if that kind of life would make us deliriously happy for long.

What really makes our hearts sing, makes us happy to wake up in the morning is believing that what we do matters—that we have Purpose!

Which brings me to Dog.

Dog has a nice life by anyone’s standards. Plenty to eat, warm beds (I think he has about four or five in different rooms of the house), lots of love, and free health care! Now that he is over his puppy stage, he is most content to lie on the ottoman in my office...

keeping me company while I read or write or try to read the Sunday NY Times...

In our old house, Dog could lounge to his heart’s content. He had a huge yard to wander around in, and wander he did, but he never stayed out much longer than to “do his business.” In spite of the great big, lovely playground with an abundance of plants and smells, he was never that into it. Like us lying on that beautiful, lazy beach—always available and easy, comfortable and warm, but not very challenging.

Then everything changed. We moved. Our new yard is way smaller. The back yard is maybe ¼ the size of our old yard and half of that is taken up by a pool. But there is so much more excitement—and Purpose.

The difference? Squirrels!

Our new yard is like the Official Reserve for the Preservation of Squirrels. All manner of squirrels! Gray squirrels, brown squirrels and a funny-looking black squirrel that appears to be a cross between a proper squirrel and a rat. It’s squirrel Nirvana—as if we were dropped into some alternate Universe where the squirrels ruled and the humans were just there to observe and tend to the acorn-producing trees.

Dog has decided that his magnificent purpose, his main goal in life is to protect his family from squirrels. This is no small task, with the multiple doors and windows in our house, lending themselves to frequent, random, spontaneous squirrel sightings.

Like Columbo on a stake-out, Dog will be lying on his bed, pretending to sleep. But he’s not as clueless as he looks. Dog always has at least a half an eye open.

No mater how exhausted or comfortable he is (and one day he was diving into a big bowl of cheese-embellished dogfood!) if he sees a squirrel, everything else falls away.

He bursts out the door with a bestial cry and a gallop, chases the offending rodent up to a tree or fence and then secures the perimeter, walking all around the pool and fence lines until he is absolutely sure that the coast is clear.

Dog never actually catches a squirrel. Never even comes close. I don’t know that he expects to. As Steve Jobs says, “The journey is the reward.” The sense of purpose is enough.

Pursuit of squirrel is a mighty journey for Dog.

May we all know the joy of purpose. And have the courage to pursue the elusive beast with reckless abandon.

And know that in the big scheme of things, the pursuit of squirrel is much more important than the catching of it.

Separated at Birth?

2010-03-31T20:38:00.000-07:00

Brad Pitt...

Speedo (Dog's little brother)...

We are babysitting Speedo for the next week, sure to inspire more dog blogs...

Gratitude and the New Year

2010-01-02T20:57:00.000-08:00

Perhaps inspired by our Christmas Eve dinner with our wonderful friends Don and Mary Jane (M.J. is the author of the amazing Attitudes of Gratitude, among many, many other fabulous books) my husband decided to write a list of all the things he was most grateful for over the past decade.

I was telling this to my 14-year-old daughter as we were driving in the car today.

"And guess what was number one on his list?" I said. "Dog!"

"Well," she deadpanned. "I hope you were at least number two."

Happy New Year and wishing you lots to be grateful for in 2010!

Dog Would Make a Great Poker Player

2009-11-23T16:24:00.000-08:00

I’ve never played poker much myself. But I understand the key to winning the game is mastering the ability to bluff.

To win this game of stakes, you must be able to look your opponent in the eye, and, whatever your hand is, make them think you are wiling to risk it all for the ultimate payoff.

Such it is with Dog and Food.

No secret that Dog is a little on the hefty side these days. I prefer to think of him as “big-boned,” and since I walk him two miles a day, he is very fit and we all know that muscle weighs more than fat, right?

Remember, back in the day, when there were three sizes of pants for boys—Slim, Regular, and Husky? Dog is definitely a size “husky.” Not that there’s anything wrong with that!

So the problem is that with four of us humans in the house, in one day, we might have as many as a dozen separate meals or snacks, and Dog is front and center at every single one, begging for a bite. I have made it a rule not to feed him from the table, but others in the family

are not as strong-willed.

Back when he was a puppy, he would only eat his dog food when we mixed in “a little something extra”—like egg yolk, chicken or cheese. Can we say, “bad habit?”

I know that some (most) dog-owners give their pets (unadorned) food a couple of times a day. They wait for them to eat or not. Then, after some reasonable amount of time, they take the food away, figuring if the dog is not hungry then, he’ll be hungry for the next meal. I think that is what “The Dog Whisperer” would recommend.

But, I just don’t have the heart. I think one of the worst feelings in the world is to be hungry. And, maybe I have a weird metabolism, but I can be fine one minute and famished the next. Luckily, I don’t have to have lunch at noon, when someone else thinks I should, but I can eat whenever I want. And I’d like Dog to have the same freedom.

Within reason.

Because I can conceivably control myself—except possibly when sour cream cheddar potato chips or onion rings are involved. But we all know that if you put a pile of infinite Filet Mignon in front of Dog, he would literally eat himself to death.

So, my new plan is to feed dog three times a day—when I eat. At breakfast, he gets kibble and a couple of shreds of cheese, At dinner, he may get carrots and a bit of chicken mixed with the dry dog food, But at lunch, it's kibble a la carte. No sauces, veggies or protein embellishments. That way, if he is truly hungry, he can eat. But if he is looking only to satisfy his epicurean delights, instead of his animal hunger, desire vs. need, he can wait for dinner. Like I can always eat carrots and celery instead of a cheeseburger.

But Dog is no fool. He knows exactly how to play his cards.

When I pour the dry food into his bowl, he looks at it. Then looks at me.

Then he glances up at the nice pan-roasted turkey and Swiss cheese on whole wheat bread that is my lunch. Then he sits ever so nicely at my feet and doesn’t beg or whine. He just looks at me with those hopeful eyes. “Won’t you please spare a bit for a poor ol’ dog?”

I am resolute. And without (much) guilt. He has food in his bowl. If he’s hungry, he can eat.

(A side note: My mother completely spoiled our family dog, Goofus. She would make him bacon and “Steak-ums” and scramble eggs and fry ground beef especially for him. He rarely got walked, but, oh, how he was fed! This was before we had ever heard the word, “cholesterol,” but I’m sure Goofus’ was through the roof. No matter, Goofus lived 14 years. My mother still laments feeding him all those bad things and fears that she inadvertently shortened his life. And I say, “If you had to choose to live 14 years with bacon or 15 years without, which would you choose?” And I think the answer is pretty obvious.)

So, Dog looks up at me longingly, pitifully, as if he is at my mercy with a pair of deuces when he knows there is a big pot to be won if he plays his cards right.

But I'm the better player. I don't flinch.

When he realizes that it is “game over,” that I have called his bluff, he retreats to his bowl of kibble and eats his spoils.

Ode to Maria

2009-08-28T20:43:00.000-07:00

Here I am on a Friday night, sitting in my mostly unpacked, uber-chaotic office, laboriously composing an e-mail to our real estate agent, outlining sales strategies for two competing, ridiculously insulting, bottom-fishing offers. Hey, Everybody loves a bargain--except when you are the one doing the selling.

On another note, Dog got groomed today. I am so crazy that I drove him one hour (ok, I missed an exit and that took a little extra time, but still) to see the one and only groomer that he loves/tolerates/will not bite.

Maria!

Maria! Is that not a beautiful name?! Maria! Doesn't just saying "Maria" make you happy? Maria oozes Italian-style over-the-top, smothering love and kisses and the best meatballs made of real breadcrumbs and fresh herbs and a smiling, plump woman who would rather feed you than do anything else on earth, even shopping a sale at Bloomingdale's or getting a pedicure. Maria is the name of a giver, a goddess, a saint!

Ave Maria!

This is how awesome she is--Maria called me on my cell-phone today, mid-groom.

"Oh, %@#*," I thought, as my Meatloaf, "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" ringtone blared, and I, like a bad daja vu nightmare, flashed back to all the other times I was emergency-called by various groomers:

"You have to come and pick up your dog. He is too anxious. We cannot continue the grooming," said in a very Slavic, no-nonsense accent by a groomer at the fanciest, most shi-shi dog salon in town. Lesson: You can't buy love.

and then, when I thought we had finally found the perfect grooming salon...

"Your dog has bit the groomer! We must have his rabies vaccination papers immediately! Otherwise your dog will have to be quarantined."

Quarantined? Dog, who had never been left alone more than five hours in his entire life? (and, in Dog's defense, whenever I told anyone this story, the people who knew his sweet, loving nature all responded in the same incredulous way, "What did the groomer DO to HIM?!" Thank Dog, for all our loyal friends.)

Which resulted in a frantic search for Dog's vaccination papers and a confusion about where he had his shots (at the regular vet or the Humane Society where he was "fixed"?) And, then, as soon as the Rabies issue was resolved, or perhaps, even a little bit before if I'm being totally honest, my thoughts were not with the poor maimed groomer, but with my own narcisstic self interests:

"NOW who will I get to groom the damned dog?"

And, later, upon hearing this story, my brother in Virginia, a big, tough man of few words, but lots of sweet affection for his own spoiled Shitzu,

recounted his own groomer horror stories and the words of wisdom that made me feel slightly less guilty,

"There are two kinds of groomers--the quick and the bandaged."

Then the sky opened up and the light shone from the heavens and we found Maria! Maria, who is obviously quick, and loves dogs (she has a bunch of litlte fluffy-type dogs--I can't remember how many) And the first time we saw her, she sat on the floor with Dog for fifteen minutes and talked to him in this soothing, hypnotic voice and and fed him little bits of beef jerky while he licked her face.

She picked Dog up (and he usually won't let anyone but me pick him up) and carried him into the grooming area. And he didn't let out the teeniest squeal or cry. Relief--Dog in good hands.

Still, when the call came in from Maria on my cellphone, I was understandably panicked. This was our last chance groomer. If Dog bit Maria, then where would we go, what would we do?

"Hi, Kathy."

"Yes."

"It's Maria. I just wanted to let you know that Sunny is a little matted and we will have to give him a closer cut than last time. Is that ok?"

Is that ok?! That is wonderful! Fabulous! Great news!

"Just do what you have to do."

Ode and Big Tip to Maria!

More on Spitzer

2009-04-21T23:09:00.000-07:00

So when I posted the blog yesterday about Eliot Spitzer, I wasn't quite sure if I was onto something or if I was just being a crazy dog lady, as I am known to be.

I am happy to report that other media sources, big and small, had similar reactions. A couple of my favorites:

New York Magazine: It's funny how he makes it sound brave to walk a bichon.

Scottish Terrier and Dog News: Poor Jesse, what must have he thought all those times he was left at home alone, a casualty of his master's image control?

Here's the whole article if you are interested. (Personally, I stopped at the dog-walking anecdote.)

Judgment and Eliot Spitzer

2009-04-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

Dog and I try not to be judgmental—Really we do!

We like to believe that everyone is doing the best they can with their life circumstances and we always say a little prayer for those who hurt our feelings or who seem to be falling short of their highest potential.

But there are exceptions.

And today, when we read the cover story in Newsweek, we felt compelled to comment, OK, judge.

Eliot Spitzer, the moral crusading governor of New York who became famous and beloved for bringing white-collar criminals to justice, fell on his own hypocritical sword when it was discovered that he was a frequent customer of the high-priced prostitution service, “The Emperors Club.” Spitzer had it all—a beautiful, intelligent wife, two daughters, a position of power and a set-for-life trust fund to boot. Then he squandered everything for a few cheap thrills. (Actually, they were quite expensive, thousands of dollars per “thrill,” but that’s another blog.)

When I first heard about the scandal, I was outraged for Spitzer’s wife, daughters, and constituents—how could he do this to the people he loved the most and pledged to serve?

But not as outraged as I was today when I read the following in Newsweek:

When he was a young politician with a tough-guy reputation, he preferred to walk only James (a Wheaten Terrier) and leave Jesse, the other family dog, at home. Jesse is a bichon frise, the kind of dog that blue-haired women leave their fortunes to. “I wouldn’t take her out in public,” Spitzer recently explained. “I thought James was the better image for me.”

And now it is all very clear. What more do we need to know except that Spitzer decided which dog to walk based solely upon how it reflected upon himself.

That Spitzer would leash up one dog, ready for his photo-opp, and leave the other dog at home, with sad eyes, whining, wondering why he wasn’t getting to go out. What a narcissistic, Machiavellian, reprehensible human being! And, even worse, the writer indulges Spitzer’s “rehabilitation story” by noting that he now walks both dogs together. Yay! Spitzer!

“It’s like OK, I have a bichon, a little white ball of fluff…I don’t care,” says Spitzer. “What do you have to lose?”

Well, for starters, any thread of empathy or benefit of the doubt that I might have given you. Any idea that you might be a genuinely good guy with some uncontrollable, bad, addictive behaviors.

Now I know that you are just an ass.

And while we’re on our judgmental high horse, let’s just say, that if Spitzer’s wife knew about his sociopathic dog-walking behavior and she married him anyway or even stayed married to him, then she should have been well aware of what she was getting herself into.

That said, Dog and I are back to praying for them all.

Fluffy and Me

2009-03-18T16:30:00.000-07:00

What is it with me and random new fabulous friends?

First, Judy, and now Don!

A few days ago, we had an afternoon of glorious weather after much rain and cold. My daughter had a scrimmage softball game and so I decided to head out with my son and Dog to enjoy the sunshine.

I dropped Savannah off, parked the car, put Dog on his leash and we ventured out into the wonderful Pleasanton Sports Park. The Sports Park is the very essence of Pleasanton and is a great symbol of why people are so nuts about this city.

This is one HUMUNGOUS (2.15 miles walking trail around the complex!) area dedicated to sports--with families in mind. Beyond the I-don't-know-how-many-but-lots-and-lots of sports fields, there are three playgrounds, public bathrooms (that aren't too gross), snack bars selling M&Ms for 50 cents and mediocre caffé lattes for $1.50 (and really, that does tell you a little about Pleasanton, that we would even attempt to sell designer coffees out of the snack shack at little league games!)

But that’s just the infrastructure.

The really, amazingly cool thing is that everywhere you look you see men and women who work long, hard days in sales or hi-tech or some such thing, and then spend hours and hours of their spare time, leaving work early, sacrificing their weekends….to play ball.

There is not much glory or reward as society would typically define it for a little league coach. No riches to speak of, except for maybe a gift card to The Cheesecake Factory at the end of the season. And the most recognition they get is the moment at the end-of-the-season party in which the coaches are inevitably pushed into the pool.

So what are they thinking?!

After ten-plus seasons of spring ball between both kids, with absolutely amazing, generous coaches, I know that the coaches do it for the love of the game and the love of their kids and the joy of seeing other people’s kids work hard to reach their potential.

My mother, a traditional Southern gal and a wise and insightful observer of human nature, after going to a few games and meeting the coaches, who were so cooperative in playing my kids in special positions so Grandma could see them in action said to me, "Those men coaches are so patient!"

But, as usual, I digress. Back to Dogs...

On this particular splendid day, Dog quickly discovered a darling black Cocker Spaniel about his same size, at the end of a lease held by a robust, friendly-looking man.

The dogs quickly connected and the humans did, too.

The human was Don. His dog was “Fluffy,” although her pedigreed name (and I noticed he threw that in pretty much right away—didn’t want me to think this was just any old mutt, although, as Seinfield would say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”) was "Caylee Rose."

And then he quickly told me that the child who he bought the dog for, a friend’s granddaughter, was named Kalista Rose. “It was destiny that these two would be together!”

I immediately fell in love with Don and his destiny dog.

What was really cool was that Don gave all the impression of being a manly, man—a big tough guy, (and I later found out he fought in the Korean War) but he was a total cupcake about the dog. I mean, really, who names their dog “Fluffy?”

And Don was as devoted to his dog as I have ever seen.

“I’m afraid Fluffy has a few extra pounds on her,” he said almost apologetically. Fluffy had so much fluffy fur, I couldn’t tell, but she looked ok to me.

“I don’t want a dog to go hungry,” he said. “If she’s hungry, I feed her!”

“Oh, I agree! Sunny has an extra pound or two (or five, I thought), but really, what are a dog’s pleasures? Eating and going for walks? What the heck?!”

“Fluffy gets lots of walks,” Don said with pride.

“But I treat Fluffy like a child,” he said. “If I’m eating a steak and a child wants to eat, I’m not going to give him peanut butter and jelly! I’ll give him what I’m eating. Fluffy likes a little beef tenderloin.”

And, again, I agree. If I’m eating steak and Dog smells it, he will totally get a couple of bites. His pleasure. Then he’s on to his kibble if he’s hungry. My compromise.

I think we’ll be seeing a lot more of Don and Fluffy this softball season. We'll probably have many more conversations about life and dogs. Just one of the many joys that Dog has brought to my life.

When I Grow Up, I Want to Be Like Judy

2009-03-09T13:01:00.000-07:00

This doesn’t have much to do with Dog or dogs in general, but I just had to write this.

One of the wonderful things about getting away, out of your comfort zone is meeting and talking to people who you would not normally encounter in your day-to-day life.

As I was walking along the California Coast in Half Moon Bay, an elderly gentleman with a cane stopped me and said,

“Do you know that’s Maverick Beach?! That’s where they have the big surfing competitions. Big waves. People come from all around the world to surf there. Not so big waves today, but you can see a little breaking waves.”

Then a sprightly elderly lady in a purple knit cap piped up,

“Oh, Bill! Are you giving your history lessons again?!”

And I quickly said, “Yes! And it’s wonderful!” Hoping that Bill would not be embarrassed.

He sauntered off quickly, mumbling, and I was left alone with the woman I would come to know as Judy.

Judy and I were walking in the same direction and so we walked and talked together—both grateful for the spontaneous company.

I learned that Judy had moved to Half Moon Bay in 1992 after her husband retired from Lockheed. “He always wanted to live by the ocean,” she said. “But he died two years later.”

Judy was the type of person who you really couldn’t tell how old she was—I’m guessing she’s in her 80’s by the timing of her husband’s retirement. But, your idea of an 80-something-year-old would be blown away by the reality of Judy.

Although Judy sensed that I normally walked at a brisker pace, and she told me that I was welcome to walk ahead if I wanted to go faster, Judy was moving along at a pretty good clip. And I enjoyed her, so we stuck together.

I learned many things—a slight dusting of local and personal cornucopia…

Judy had two children, although one had died and the other one lived in Wisconsin and was not in good health.

Judy didn’t like the restaurant at the Ritz—preferring, instead, Sam’s Chowder House--where we had an excellent, fun dinner with live music on Saturday night—Thanks, Judy!

And the big revelation was that there was a casual golf restaurant across the street from the Ritz where I had a wonderful breakfast the next day for less than half the price that I had paid the previous morning! (Believe it or not, the Ritz charges $8 for a bagel! At Mullins a bagel and cream cheese is a veritable bargain at $3!)

I also learned about Poppy and Pepper,

The horses that were rescued from the racetrack by a local. Those are two lucky horses. Here’s their view:

And I learned about the satellite at the end of the coast. “They complained when they put it up and then when they wanted to take it down, they complained.”

People don’t like change.

Judy shared her ritual with me. She took me to the edge of the cliffs where she says she always goes and looks out to the ocean. Four points. Beautiful views. I said a brief silent prayer, but I didn’t feel intimate enough with Judy to ask if she did the same, or even if she believed in God, although I wish I had.

When we turned around to go back, we happened upon the much superior, better view “Golfer’s Only” path at the Ritz. Judy confided that she would often look to see if there were golfers on the course, and if there weren’t, she would squeeze through the fence

and go on that path. Was I game?

You betcha! The idea of doing something outside of the lines with my new BFF—why not, what did we have to lose? Except the possibility that I would get stuck, wedged between the fences.

We made it and, almost immediately, a golf cart driven by a guy in a red jacket and a Ritz Carlton baseball cap was tailing us.

Judy didn’t wait for the admonishment. She greeted him before he could say a word:

“I’m a local and she’s visiting. We looked and there were no golfers and so we thought we would take the scenic route,” she said, and I am thinking that if you are in your 80’s and quick-witted, you can probably get away with a lot of stuff.

“I’m sorry,” I said, although I didn’t mean it. “Judy corrupted me!”

The “marshall” as Judy called him, smiled as he gave us a stern warning and advised us to walk fast because golfers were on their way. Wahoo! We got away with it!

As we came to the end of our walk, I remarked that Judy needed a little dog to keep her company in this dog-friendly community.

“Are you kidding?” she said. “Do you know how many times dogs need to stop and sniff?!”

Yes, Judy, I do. You're probably right. A dog would just slow you down.

Paradise

2009-03-08T19:38:00.000-07:00

Shhhh! PLEASE, whatever you do, DO NOT tell Dog that I just spent the weekend in doggie (and human) paradise. If he knew, I don’t think he could ever forgive me for leaving him behind.

If I had only known that Half Moon Bay was such a Mecca for dogs…

When my husband got invited to an Entrepreneur’s Conference at the fabulous Ritz Carlton Half Moon Bay

AND spouses were invited AND the company was paying—how fast can we say “No Brainer?! Pack your suitcase!”

I was looking forward to a blissful, relaxing weekend—free of responsibilities—housework, kids and Dog (sorry, kids and Dog!) But, little did I know that I would encounter dogs everywhere I went!

Dogs on the beach, dogs on the hiking trails, dogs in the shops, dogs in the restaurants!

That is so perfect—Cameron’s Restaurant for Dogs!

Big Dogs

Little Dogs

Black and White Dogs

Do you like my hat?

Go Dog, Go!

I almost expected to see a Big Dog Party in a Tree in downtown!

Dogs dressed in biker jackets and frilly pink sweaters and Burberry coats.

I watched one crazy dog lady from a distance, but didn’t have my camera. Later, when I decided to blog about it, I Googled “Half Moon Bay Dogs” and guess what showed up as the fourth search result?:

Jeff kept asking me if I missed Dog (I don’t think he asked this about the kids, strangely enough, he knew the answer and I’m not telling what it was).

My response, “No, not at all.”

Until Sunday morning. When I saw a woman jogging with her fluffy white dog with the absolutely beautiful face who looked like he could have been Dog’s long-lost, much larger, third cousin, twice-removed:

And, as I walked alone, in perfect peace along that beautiful coast, I thought that maybe, just maybe, it might be even more perfect if Dog were there to share the experience.

And at that moment, I didn’t wish for anyone else. My husband was happily sleeping in late and he doesn’t like to hike anyway. My daughter hates to wake up early and forced physical exercise on a weekend is her idea of pure hell. My son is more apt to go for an early morning walk/hike, but then we have another being to try to keep happy in terms of path, length of walk, etc. and it is not always so relaxing.

Everyone in my life has their own agenda and desires and personalities and mostly I spend an extraordinary amount of time and effort trying to make peace and work it out so that everyone is happy.

And Dog, while demanding in his own way, is pretty much happy (thrilled!) to be with me with a few basic needs met—a morning walk, kibble with a little shredded cheese, a belly rub. And, although he may tug on the leash a little to try to exert his will, he is mostly satisfied to let me go where I want and he's happy to be my silent companion. Is it any wonder that I love him so much?

Happy Ending—Cameron and I are taking kids and dogs to Half Moon Bay for the day during Spring Break and we are totally having lunch at Cameron’s!

Are You a Cat or a Dog?

2009-02-23T14:22:00.000-08:00

Last night we attended an Oscar party and the biggest surprise of the night was not Sean Penn beating Mickey Rourke for Best Actor….

No, the biggest surprise of the night was finding my husband, Jeff, confirmed Hater-of-Cats, gingerly petting the big, fat, fluffy gray cat of our hostess!

The cat was sitting on the kitchen table, next to Jeff, and he was caressing her with a smile on his face that looked like he was really enjoying himself.

One of the biggest regrets of my life is that I didn’t get a photo of this!

(And certainly something that my husband will deny in future years without photographic evidence. He tends to repress uncomfortable experiences to the point of completely blocking them from his memory! Certainly petting a cat will fall into this category.)

As we were leaving the party with our kids, I again exclaimed at the wonder of Jeff petting a Cat!

Jeff remarked that he was just trying to be a good guest—embracing, rather than recoiling at the experience of the cat jumping up to sit beside him on the table.

He explained the nature of his experience with Cats…

“Unlike Dogs, Cats want to know if you're friend or foe (most Dogs assume you're friend).

So, if you ignore a Cat when you first meet it, the Cat will seek you out to determine friend / foe. Therefore, the quickest way to get rid of a Cat is to initially pet it and then ignore it. This establishes you as a unreliable friend and practically insures the Cat will never bother you again.

Put yourself in the Cat's position: if a guy flirted with you at a bar and then ignored you for the rest of the night, how would you feel?”

Is it a wonder that this (Cat) guy ever got married?! Good thing he connected with a Dog like me…

“It’s funny,” I said, “That you hate Cats so much, when, really, you are a Cat.”

"What?"

“They say there are two different kinds of people—Cats or Dogs. You are definitely a Cat. You keep your distance. People—you can take or leave. You are naturally aloof. As long as your bowl has food and your litter box is clean, you are pretty well satisfied.”

“In our family, Jeff and Savannah are Cats. Carson and I are Dogs.”

“What?!” exclaimed Savannah! “I don’t want to be a Cat!”

“Sorry, honey, you’re a Cat like your dad.”

“No!”

“Let’s think about Dogs. They love people! They are happy! They would rather have a walk and a belly rub and a little attention than anything.”

“But everybody loves Dogs!”

“It’s not about being popular. Angelina Jolie is a Cat! Sean Penn is a Cat! George Clooney is a Dog! They all have Oscars!”

Some people like Cats and most people like Dogs—it’s a matter of personal preference. You might admire a Cat from afar, but not want to get too close. Sometimes people even like Cats more because they are so hard to like.

Tilda Swinton, for example.

But, the clincher…

“A Dog would rather play ball in the yard than cruise Wikipedia for Twilight references.”

“OK, I guess I am a Cat," Savannah relented.

“Fine," I said. Dog that I am, giving her a hug, “Luckily, I like Cats AND Dogs.”

Babysitting Dog's Little Brother

2009-02-12T12:38:00.000-08:00

I have a few backlogged blogs to post, but just had to do this one today--totally living in the Now! A tale of two brothers—a photo-journal…

As loyal blog readers know, Cameron and family are the wonderful people who are Sunny’s “second family.” Whenever we go on vacation, we leave Dog (aka Sunny) with the Sullivans where I know he is not only well-taken care of, but loved and spoiled to excess. Vacations all around!

Long story, short, the Sullivans fell so madly in love with Sunny that they decided they just had to have one of their very own—and not just any dog, but a brother of Sunny’s—different litter, but same mother. (Much more about this later…)

Such is how "Speedo" (named not only for his quick sprints, but, also because Cameron and kids are competitive swimmers) came to be the new Top Dog at Chez Sullivan.

Cameron and I just knew that the brothers would be the best of friends and imagined rambunctious playdates and trading sleepovers when we needed someone to watch the dogs.

What we never could have anticipated is just how much the dogs would behave like real brothers. Speedo ADORES Sunny. He would rather be with Sunny than anyone—just the mention of "Sunny" sends Speedo into near spasms of doggie delight of barking and whining and crying! When he sees Sunny, he leaps at him—nudging and jostling for play—doing anything to get his attention.

Sunny, on the other hand, not so much.

It’s a little strange, because Sunny is extraordinarily friendly--he will cross a busy street to greet a person or dog; he loves most dogs, and he is the first to strike up a friendly play whether it’s with the cute little Havanese girl down the street or the neighbor's big Lab-mix from the pound.

But his attitude towards Speedo leans more to tolerance than delight. Just like the little brother who constantly bugs his big brother to let him in on the fun—Speedo just seems to desperately want to be a Big Dog, too.

I, of course, love Speedo like you love the baby of a really good friend--he's absolutely adorable, charming, cute-beyond-all-measure, and totally exhausting! You marvel at the energy of your friend and wonder how you did it when it was your time.

Today Cameron took her twin girls on a big, all-day trip to San Francisco, so I cleared my schedule so I could be home all day to be Doggie Supernanny. And what a day!

The first thing I did, as you always do when watching babies, is to fence off the stairs...

Of course, I worry about Speedo's safety, but, also, I have new carpet upstairs.

The boys sized each other up:

Are you lookin’ at ME?

Then they decided to play a little keep-away…

Mom, Speedo has my toy!

Sunny, you have to learn to share with your brother.

Mom, He's teasing me!

Oh, Sunny, you have to be more tolerant, he’s just a baby! You’re the big brother!

Aha! You took your eye off the prize. Now I’m coming to get what’s mine!

Now, who’s the Big Dog?

I am totally taking this outside and burying it in my secret spot.

OK, Boys! Enough! I am not going to spend my day refereeing your silly sibling squabbles! Opposite sides of the couch for you!

I’ve got to get away…Up to my perch!

Where’s Sunny?

Come on! Let’s Play!

And, just like a lot of brothers, I have no doubt that Sunny and Speedo will someday be the best of friends!

We're Baaaack!!!

2008-11-28T20:34:00.000-08:00

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

2008-08-04T16:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-03T20:09:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-25T14:18:00.000-07:00

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!

2008-07-06T22:23:00.001-07:00

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!

2008-06-30T17:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-25T19:41:00.000-07:00

(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

2008-06-24T20:23:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-06-23T16:24:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-06-17T16:57:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-11T13:52:00.000-07:00

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

2008-06-08T22:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

"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!

2008-04-29T19:34:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-05T19:09:00.000-08:00

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

2008-03-04T12:48:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-02-27T12:49:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-02-20T12:50:00.000-08:00

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.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2008-02-13T12:02:00.000-08:00

In keeping with the fine tradition of corny Valentine’s Day poems, I humbly offer my Ode to Dog…

Dear God, Universe, Big Labrador in the Sky,
Thanks for sending me what I did not know I needed…

I asked you for a cuddly dog
When my youngest started school.
I wanted a purse puppy
An accessory to be cool.

A dog to give me love
And lick me on the face.
Always glad to see me
Yet give me lots of space.

But when we saw our puppy,
The way he played, what fun!
He made us laugh; he charmed us,
We knew he was the one.

I try to tempt him on my lap
For a peaceful little snooze.
He grabs my slipper, playing keep away.
He’s built more to amuse.

Now when he takes me for a walk
Every day I pray,
Thank God you didn’t listen,
It’s much more fun to play!

Dog and me in a rare moment in which he tolerates my cuddling.

Wishing you all a playful Valentine’s Day!

If You Love Something, Set It Free (unless it’s a puppy!)

2008-02-06T12:25:00.000-08:00

“If you love something, set it free. If it comes back to you, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was.” Anonymous

While I generally agree with the wisdom of this, I think for it to be true, the thing that is being set free must know how to come back and have the maturity to do so—in other words, not necessarily applicable to puppies!

One of my fondest, crazy stories about Dog has to do with this very idea and it occurred when he was just a puppy…

Once Dog had all of his shots I started taking him on his soon-to-become daily walks.

Part of the joy of this routine quickly became the friends (both human and canine) that we began to meet along the way. Dog would approach warily at first, like the awkward guy at the singles bar. He would sniff and circle and then suddenly pounce, wanting to play. (Insert your own joke about singles bars here.)

I would strike up a conversation with the human on the other end of the leash and, like young mothers meeting at the park, we would exchange pleasantries about the weather, potty training and the merits of various experts such as Dr. Brazelton or The Dog Whisperer.

One of our regular canine pals was Joey, a big, handsome, gray, curly-haired dog. Joey was a good 30-40 pounds bigger than Dog, but he (and his owners) had a sweet disposition and we all got to be fast friends.

We would frequently meet on our walks and the dogs would circle and play with each other (and growl a little) as dogs often do when they are on their leash.

In our very well-behaved, very proper neighborhood we often see dogs off their leashes who walk calmly next to their owners as if they were on parade at the Westminster Kennel Show. These Über-dogs respond to a command the first time and were certainly the darlings of their obedience classes. Dog and I (me, mostly) are a teeny bit envious.

Being the procrastinator that I am, I had not taken Dog to obedience training yet (uh, and still haven’t almost two years later…) and we had never let him off the leash outside of our own backyard. But on one particular morning when the sun was shining brightly and it felt like everything was right with the world and I was feeling wild and optimistic and trusting in the Universe, when Joey’s parents suggested we let them off the leash to play, I was game.

“Will he run across the street?” I asked meekly, a little embarrassed about being overprotective and concerned about peer pressure and bad influences—everything you worry about when first letting someone you love go to be free to make their own decisions after being tightly controlled, under your watchful eye for so long.

“Oh, No! He never goes across the street! He’s very good!” Joey’s parents assured me.

So, feeling happy and optimistic and trusting, I unlatched Dog’s leash so that he and his friend could play freely.

Thrilled, the dogs chased each other around the park, hardly believing their good fortune in relinquishing the leashes. Then, in less than a minute, Joey gave Sunny a look that said, “Let’s ditch these human losers while we have the chance,” and Joey bolted across the main road of our neighborhood, running hard in some random (to me anyway) direction.

And what did Dog do? Did he look over at me to see if it was ok to follow his friend? Did he even consider my feelings? Or the dangers lurking beyond the safety of my loving protection?

Not for a moment! Dog took off like a lightning bolt, chasing his friend across the forbidden road, with nary a glance in my direction. I didn’t pause to see the horrified reactions of Joey’s parents or to make a funny comment about the irony of it all.

I just ran.

I don’t think I ran for long (Thank, Dog!) But I do know that I ran as fast as I could imagine without feeling tired. I entered a new dimension and I think I could have run a marathon without being aware of time or space. And my mind was racing, too. In the few moments from the time I crossed the street from the park, my brain ran through a million terrible thoughts.

What if someone saw Dog on the street and thought he was so cute and dognapped him?! What if one of those big SUVs in our neighborhood ran him over without even seeing him under their huge wheels? What would I tell the kids? “Mommy’s so sorry. She made a Bad Choice and let Dog off the leash and now he is gone forever.”

They would hate me, but maybe there would be a lesson in that, I thought, trying to make myself feel better. As Oprah says, “What is the gift in this experience?” In her essay about her beloved Golden Retriever, Gracie dying, she says "I know for sure that everything in life happens to help us live."

But, I'm not quite there yet.

I was all into fear and projecting into the future, but I made myself get back into the moment and pray, as I ran faster than I can ever remember running, “Oh, God, please let him be ok. Please let him be ok, please let me be ok,” like a mantra and a promise to make better choices in the future.

Then I turned the corner into the court that opens up to the path to our house and I saw Joey running back towards me—with no Dog following with behind him. And then my heart beat faster and the dark recesses of my mind took over and I feared for the worst and I thought about that terrible book I read, the Dogs of Babel...

And because I didn’t know what else to do or where else to go, I ran towards our house, frantically praying all the while.

And when I got there, my heart stopped. Literally stopped for about a half a second.

And I saw Dog sitting on the beat-up old welcome mat on the front porch of our house. Looking at me like he knew he had been a Bad Boy, but he was home now and everything was ok and could we just possibly forget that it all happened?

So, in this case, it worked. Happy Ending. I set something free and it came back. But, in general, I wouldn’t recommend it for puppies.

Women and Dogs Who Love Too Much: Part 2

2008-01-31T11:59:00.000-08:00

I actually think I could teach Dog the word “Sunday” and he would get it. But that doesn’t solve my bigger problem. Dog is obsessively in love with me and no one else will do as long as he thinks he can get me. (Yes, I know, except for maybe Cameron.)

The night before Sunday (described in the previous post) when I was out with the kids, my husband, Jeff, tried to lure Dog up on the couch to snuggle and watch a movie. No dice. Jeff even admitted to placing a piece of cheese on the couch, but Dog could not be distracted from his post at the front door window, waiting and hoping, patiently for my return. Let’s make this clear—Dog was refusing CHEESE to instead hungrily pine away for me in his lonely vigil. That’s got to be a dog’s definition of Loving Too Much.

Which brings us to the philosophical discussion of Love and exactly What Love Is.

People are always talking about how their dogs give them unconditional love. Is that really true? In one sense, Yes, it is.

A dog will love you in spite of (or maybe even because of) all the flaws that would make well-adjusted humans recoil in disgust. Haven’t had a shower in a week? You are even more attractive to Dog! The combo of sweaty armpits and dirty socks is the Chanel Number 5 of a dog’s world. Like to lie around on the couch and eat junk all day? So does Dog! Being fat, lazy, messy—not an issue—maybe even a plus with your dog!

Dog and Me, No Shower, No Makeup, No Problem

But true, unconditional love—not so fast. While Dog genuinely Likes most people and will happily greet them, he reserves his special love for me—the person who feeds, walks, plays and spends time with him.

Who makes a breakfast of microwaved egg yolk and dog food even before she pours her first cup of coffee? Who walks Dog in the rain? Who, if Dog has been left alone for a few hours, walks into the house and throws the squeaky toy even before she takes off her pantyhose?

Me, that’s right. I am the one and only person who puts Dog’s needs above her own pretty much most of the time, which admitting in print, makes me think I am hopelessly weird and unfocused and makes me wonder if I should spend more time jogging or working on my book proposal or organizing my closets.

It’s not an approval or an ego thing. Nobody gives a hoot, or even knows, whether your dog approves of you or not. Instead, it is this undeniable empathy or responsibility or pure goodness or pure guilt or whatever… I believe that the way you treat your dog is a moral compass. Because it’s all about the other being, who can’t complain or gossip about you or withhold sex or money. The dog is just an independent being, a little like Blanche DuBois, dependent on the kindness of strangers.

Back to Obsessive Love--I have the same problem with the rest of my family as I have with Dog. Everybody wants to be with me! If only I could have been so popular in high school! But let’s examine the source of their love…Is it because of my sharp wit and sparkling personality and general fabulosity?

I think not. Most likely, it has more to do with the fact that I Do Absolutely Every Thing For Them from making their sandwiches to calling out words for the Spelling Bee to washing their gym clothes at 9 pm on Sunday night to planning their birthday parties to asking them about their day (and really listening to the answer!)

(And, now that I think of it, if I had been just as self-sacrificing and generous—letting kids copy my homework and engaging more frequently in gratuitous heavy petting, I probably would have been just as popular in high school…)

In essence, I care. I really do. For some weird reason in this very self-obsessed world, in my very own, self-obsessed Universe, I (mostly) care about Dog, my husband, and my kids—more than I care about myself.

Oh, I’ve heard about the oxygen mask analogy and it makes total, rational sense. (Put on your own mask first, then save the others.) But when the plane is going down, it’s going to be your first instinct to put the mask on your kids. You might die in the process, but so be it. The plane is going down—you save your kids first. I would totally do that. It’s not an intellectual decision, but a gut reaction.

Such is the nature of Loving Too Much. Probably not a good thing in general, but it’s what we do and if it’s instinctive and honest and if we go down because of it, so be it. There are worse ways to go.

A Few Words of Wisdom on Love:

"You may only be one person to the world, but you may also be the world to one person (or dog)" - anonymous quote

Women Who Love Too Much (and the Dogs They Love) (and the Dogs Who Love Them)

2008-01-28T16:41:00.000-08:00

Remember that book from the 80’s, Women Who Love Too Much? (Subtitled When You Keep Wishing and Hoping He’ll Change.) Back in the day of all those cleverly-titled zillion-copy best-seller, self-help relationship volumes like Smart Women, Foolish Choices and Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. This particular book was all about “women who believe being in love means being in pain.”

I think I might have made fun of that book at one time. But I’m not laughing now.

“Pain” was heavy on my mind this Sunday morning at 6 am when Dog did his best to wake me up from a dead sleep, jumping up on my side of the bed, clawing and whining for my attention. Even though my husband tried to rescue me by offering to take Dog downstairs and let me sleep in, Dog refused to leave my side. Such is the obsessive loyalty of Too Much Love.

Normally Dog and I are up before dawn. We like it that way. We get a little time to sneak in a cup of coffee and a chicken treat and a bit of a snuggling/writing session on the couch before the rest of the family gains consciousness and starts making demands for pancakes and signed permission slips and clean underwear.

But on a normal night before a normal morning, I’m normally soundly snoozing by 10 pm. But the night before Sunday was not normal and I was up past midnight taking the kids to see a friend in a regional production of The Wizard of Oz. Not enough sleep! And it was Sunday!

No matter. As smart as Dog is, I can’t seem to get him to understand the concept of the weekly calendar or a teacher’s workday. (And, to be fair to Dog, the random holidays and week-long Winter/Spring breaks and the big Summer vacations must be very confusing to him--I know they are to me!)

Although Dog's breed has been raised to be purely companion dogs, I truly think that Dog has a bit of a work ethic in him (maybe it's nurture vs. nature working here) and he believes that it is his sole responsibility to make sure that everyone is up and out of the house on time. I think it gives him a sense of purpose, which is probably very important to his self-esteem, and is something that I, as a transplanted native Californian, feel obligated to honor.

So, even though I was able to use my Alpha Dog commands and get Dog to leave me alone for awhile, at 6:45 am, he was absolutely frantic about waking me up. As I stumbled into my slippers, he didn’t follow his normal routine of going downstairs with me. He barged immediately into my daughter’s room—intent on waking her up for school, which is his normal task--Monday through Friday.

“Dog, It’s Sunday!” I reprimanded in a whisper so as not to wake my sleeping daughter. Dog rolled over on his back in the "surrender" position.

“Damn Dog,” I muttered to myself as I picked him up and carried him down the steps and walked into the kitchen to put on the coffee. “Sunday, Sunday! Sunday is a very important concept!” Certainly more important than “Sit” and maybe even more important than “Go Pee-Pee” or “Treat”—at least to me.

To be continued….

Ya Gotta Have Friends, Part 2: My Pack

2008-01-25T17:38:00.000-08:00

Last night I got together with my pack—a group of extraordinary moms, friends and writers. We began almost six years ago as virtual strangers. We came together in kind of a happenstance karma: a friend of a friend who knew two of us were aspiring writers and scribbled our names and numbers on an envelope; a failed attempt at forming a Writers’ Group; a chance conversation between new neighbors.

Through the magic of time and the unabashed sharing of dreams, disappointments, successes and troubles, we have grown into the kinds of friends that you might read about in a really good Chick Lit book and know that it had to be totally made-up— just too good to be true.

We call ourselves The Literary Lushes, which is surely a bit of an embellishment (we’re writers, after all!) Introducing my pack, in the order in which they appear:

Amy Moellering—the modern incarnation of the 50’s sitcom moms like Leave It to Beaver and Father Knows Best, with a little I Love Lucy on the side. Amy is now busying herself putting the finishing touches on her wonderful, heartfelt YA novel. Amy also writes a weekly column for the local paper about schools, a subject about which she is quite the expert as she tirelessly volunteers and shuttles around her three very talented, super-active kids.

Keely Parrack—an inspiration to us all—a smart, funny Brit with a laser-beam focus, who can’t be tempted away from her writing schedule for silly pursuits like going for coffee, cleaning the toilets or grocery shopping. Keely just landed a Big-Time New York City agent to represent her YA novel, Fragments. Remember this name, and that you heard it here first.

Cameron Sullivan—what else can I say about Cameron, that I haven’t already said, here. Other than being the Other Woman in Dog’s life, she is contagiously fun and enthusiastic and passionate and one of the most prolific writers I personally know. She has written over 100 humor columns for our local paper and so many feature articles that I don’t even think she bothers to clip them any more. Cameron is now furiously working away on her YA novel.

Grace Navalta—award-winning storyteller, and one of the most generous, kind and joyful people I know. And resilient! No matter what life throws at her, Grace comes roaring back—wiser and wilder than ever. Grace is working on a totally amazing multi-generational tale of her family’s life from the Philippines to the United States.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I love my pack.

Ya Gotta Have Friends!

2008-01-23T13:07:00.000-08:00

It’s been very rainy in Northern California. Rainy and cold and gloomy, which makes me want to pull up the covers and hide away with a big mug of something warm to drink and a good book and ignore everything on my To-Do list.

But there is one thing on my list that can’t be ignored—walking Dog. I can easily go a day without doing the dishes, or answering the phone or e-mails or even taking a shower, but Dog’s walk is non-negotiable.

Let's make this clear--I am not a routine-type person by nature. But having kids or dogs forces you into this weird mode of self-sacrifice in which you end up kind of vicariously enjoying and even rationalizing boring routines as a fulfilling way to spend your time. I am holding the family together here! And, really, if I didn’t have to walk the dog or make chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast and pack lunches and check homework and drive kids to school, what would I be dong? Perhaps wasting my time sleeping in, getting pedicures, or writing the Great American Novel. What fun would that be?

So I have gotten Dog into the habit of having a walk every morning at a certain time and he holds me to our unspoken promise of routine.

I would venture to guess that in the last year and a half Dog has been walked almost every single day—the only rare exceptions are days when it pours rain down all day as it did a couple of weeks ago or I am sick in bed and can’t move. Maybe three days out of the last 500. The Dog Whisperer would be proud!

But today, in the brief break in the rain, when it was only drizzling, we went for our walk and Dog refused to go along the routine path. He tugged on the leash and sat down on the path and insisted on going to his doggie-friend, Cody’s house. (This is the Havanese that my husband fell in love with that propelled us to get Dog.) I felt pretty stupid, but we knocked on the door and I meekly said that I thought Dog was wanting to have a playdate…

The dogs have been having a blast.

Running around, chasing each other, playing in a way that they can only do because they GET each other. I can walk or play squeekie-toy with Dog, but as much as I want to relate, I can’t. I’m not a dog.

I have to remember this in my own life. I love my friends. But I sometimes forget when I have so many other demands on my time, that my fabulous, smart, amazing friends are a source of inspiration and energy.

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day!

2008-01-21T19:54:00.000-08:00

This morning I read on Yahoo News that although everybody knows that Martin Luther King, Jr. made the famous “I have a dream” speech, that’s all that most of us know about this mythological man whose birthday we’re celebrating today. We don’t even know what his dream was.

When I first began writing my book, Let Go, Let Miracles Happen, I didn’t know any more than the average person about MLK. Then, while doing research for the book, I came across a wonderful collection of his sermons—Strength to Love. Wow! In the truest sense of the word, Wow! This is one of the most brilliant, loving, inspired, powerful books I have ever read.

In honor of this day and this great, great man, I offer the following story (that I included in Let Go) that illustrates the power of surrendering our problems, continuing to act on the solution, and letting go of our specific idea of what that solution should be:

When Dr. King was leading the bus boycott in Montgomery, Alabama, they set up a car pool to help people get around. The car pool operated without problem for eleven months, but then, the mayor of Montgomery had had enough. He instructed the city’s leading department to file proceedings making the car pool—or any other mode of transportation in support of the boycott—illegal. A hearing was set to decide the matter.

Dr. King tells how he dreaded telling supporters the news that the car pools would probably be closed down. This meant that they had only two choices: Either they would all have to walk to work, or take the buses again and admit that the boycott had failed.

“When the evening (before the hearing) came,” writes Dr. King, “I mustered sufficient courage to tell them the truth. I tried, however, to conclude on a note of hope. ‘We have moved all of these months,’ I said, ‘in the daring faith that God is with us in our struggle. The many experiences of days gone by have vindicated that faith in a marvelous way. Tonight we must believe that a way will be made out of no way.’”

The next day, the hearing did not go well, and it looked like Dr. King and his supporters would lose, and the carpools would be outlawed. All seemed hopeless. Then, an amazing thing happened. At a brief recess, there was a commotion in the courtroom, and a reporter handed Dr. King the news, “The United States Supreme Court today unanimously ruled bus segregation unconstitutional in Montgomery, Alabama.” Someone shouted from the back of the courtroom, “God Almighty has spoken from Washington!”

It’s a good thing that Dr. King didn’t pray to keep the car pool. God had a much better way of solving his problem!

This story still gives me chills when I read it. May we all celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. today by living his dream, (as Coretta Scott King writes) “By reaching into and beyond ourselves and tapping the transcendent moral ethic of love.”

More Dog on Politics

2008-01-17T11:24:00.000-08:00

Dog and I were sitting at the dinner table with the kids last night (OK, I was sitting AT the table and Dog was UNDER the table, begging for roast beef scraps) and we decided to have a conversation about something more culturally significant than 3rd grade math test races or middle school friendship dramas.

“Let’s talk about the election!” I said and Dog wagged his tail furiously in agreement (or maybe just his optimistic, “cute-dog” begging strategy…)

“So, children,” I said in my best pseudo-intellectual, self-satisfied, politically-conscious, good-mom voice, “What do you think is the most important quality in selecting a president?”

“Getting the most votes!” said Savannah, my literal-minded, analytical child.

“Yes, of course. That’s obvious,” I responded, thinking to myself that this obvious strategy didn’t work out so well for Gore in 2000.

“Let me phrase it differently. What quality is most important to YOU in a candidate who YOU would vote for?”

“Honesty,” was Savannah’s immediate answer. “And being frank with the voters. But I guess that’s kind of the same thing.” I think Savannah may have perhaps been influenced a teeny, tiny bit by plucking “Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them” by Al Franken off of my bookshelf.

“How about you, Carson?”

“Honesty,” says my second-born who adores and emulates his sister. And then his wise-cracking evil twin added, “And puppy-pink nail polish for the girls!”

“What if Obama wore puppy-pink nail polish?” asked Savannah in her hard-hitting, Mike Wallace-in-training style. “Would you vote for him?”

“Yes!” And then Carson added, “Just kidding!”

But sometimes I wonder if the election might come down to such frivolous issues. I wonder if some candidates might just be desperate enough to don puppy-pink nail polish or some other similarly ridiculous issue position or media ploy in the hopes to gain a few votes that would tip them over the top.

I tried to explain the concept of state primaries and delegates and conventions and the parts that they play in who we, as a country, decide who will run for president.

I was surprised that my children had not learned any of this in their very fine public schools, and then, I was even more surprised that I, the political junkie that I am, could not answer many of the questions about how we nominate presidential candidates, especially when it came to numbers.

Then I did something that is a definite No-No in terms in family dinner etiquette—I brought out my laptop for some dinner-time Googling.

And here, with the requisite disclaimers about the unreliability of info found on the Internet, are some interesting things we learned about how we nominate Democrats and Republicans for president:

• Democrats and Republicans both determine their nominees by who wins the majority of delegates from the various state primaries and caucuses.
• The rough numbers are about 2,000 for the Democrats and about 1,000 for the Republicans.
• About 40% of the Democratic delegates are “super-delegates” who are not bound by voters. These super-delegates include Democratic governors and members of Congress, and former democratic elected officials, like Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter, and Al Gore. Which essentially means that, for the Democrats, winning the popular vote is important, but, in the case of a fractured party, as may very well be the case this year, the old Boys network is even more important.

This could be the most interesting primary election season in memory. The Republicans are all over the place. They could go into the convention with no real winner. They would have to fight it out at the convention. That would be fun for Dog to watch.

With the Democrats, the question is, who is more of an Old Boy? Hillary Clinton or Barrack Obama?

Unlike me, Dog is a one issue voter. Dog’s vote is with whoever is offering roast beef.

Guest Blogger--Savannah!

2008-01-14T17:46:00.000-08:00

“Savannah…will you write a guest blog for me?”

“WHY?”

“You have nothing else to do.”

Hmm. Good point.

My name is Savannah, daughter of dog-writer extraordinaire Kathy (she wouldn’t compliment herself, so I had to do it), and partial owner of the all-important Dalai Dog. I do behind-the scenes work.

For example, I have just succeeded in forcing Dog into a too-tight black shirt emblazoned with the golden, glistening words “Local Celebrity.” (He IS quite pupular.) Check back for the Podcast of this exciting adventure! (As soon as we can figure out how to download videos from the new camera.)

Worn out after a few fruitless minutes at the beginning of the battle, already nursing a bite to the thumb, I protested, “It doesn’t fit him!”

Mom: “That shirt is for MEDIUM-SIZED dogs. Make it fit!” A verbal example of the side of her that you have never seen before, as she is usually mellow and sharp-witted before writing about Sunny in the Dalai Dog Blog. I, meanwhile, am forced to simply comply because I have no other ways of occupying my time tonight. (I really need to get a life.)

Mom has shown you Dog’s opinion on matters such as Halloween, snow, and the presidential election of 2008. What do I, the low-life stagehand and understudy to usual blogger, Kathy, have to say on the subject of the furry, white animal?

For starters, he is persistent. I am, too; this similarity is number one between us. If you put a beef bone in the middle of a table, four feet off the ground, Dog, at approximately ten inches in height, will find a way to get it—whether his methods be pulling the tablecloth away, pushing a chair over to use as a stepladder, or just crying in that annoying, irresistible high-pitched way that he has until you give in and put the treasure on the floor. I suppose that last one could be attributed to a whining toddler or a bratty teenager who will stop at nothing to get what she wants.

I have the same trait, so I prefer to label it DETERMINATION,

which I understand to be a very good thing among students trying to get into Harvard and business people trying to make a lot of money, but not so much among Dogs and pre-teens who may have other goals in mind.

Secondly, Dog is stubborn. (Which can be roughly translated as “persistent,” and I have just written about that, but…it doesn’t count as a blog entry unless I have more than half a page. Plus, it’s sort of different...sort of.) Now, a lot of the time, he’ll be playing vigorously with a squeaky toy, and after a few minutes, we’ll notice he’s panting. Tongue hanging out of his mouth, breathing like there’s no tomorrow, he’ll just LAY there.

“Get some water, Dog!” we shout, and he gives us a look as if to say, Water? Pshh. That’s not going to help my extreme thirst. We bring him some in a paper cup, and he reluctantly laps it up. Afterwards (clearly not panting anymore), he seemingly says, Okay, maybe it did work. Just that one time. You’re still just a bunch of silly humans. Pompous pooch. We love him anyways, though.

Finally, and very unusually, Dog is an optimist. I cannot claim to be in possession of that same characteristic (I jump back and forth between positive and negative attitudes), but Dog is always looking on the bright side. If it’s rainy and Dog gets fewer walks than usual, he thinks, More inside playtime! If he has to get a bath, he shrugs his doggy shoulders and thinks, At least I get treats afterwards! Of course, like most humans, Dog strives to make sure these less-than-preferable things DON’T happen. But if they must, he rides the wave of life and goes along with them.

So concludes my dog blog, the Dog’s features put into an entry on the Internet. Have you ever read the newspaper? Seen the “fillers,” the pieces that the editors put near the bottoms of the paper, just a few lines of nothing to fill up the page when a journalist hasn’t written enough words in an article? This is basically a 700-word filler, intended to provide entertainment and take up space where my mother decided it was my turn to write. I have to admit: it gave me something to do for a little while, and I did have fun being a guest blogger for The Dalai Dog.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my nonexistent life. ;)

Can't We Just Get Along?!

2008-01-10T13:46:00.000-08:00

I have some freelance writing deadlines and Dog has a lot of sleeping to do. (it's raining in Northern California and the drizzle makes us lazy and sleepy.) There are no big primaries in the next few days.

But, stupidly, we turned on the TV for background distraction and we were surprised to see on CNN that John Kerry is endorsing Obama for president. What's up with that? In 2004 Kerry picked Edwards to be his running mate. He must have had faith in him then. What happened in the last four years? Seems like a bit of a slap in the face to Edwards.

(Dog and I are tempted by our dark side to go on and on about ego, jealousy, blame, judgment, but we refuse to go public with such fearful notions.)

Instead, we choose to post some photos of unexpected co-existence, peace and love.

Dog Bless You All!

A Miracle in New Hampshire

2008-01-09T13:36:00.000-08:00

America, did we just experience a miracle? I don’t know about you, but Dog and I think so.

And it has nothing to do with who won last night.

It’s not about Hillary Clinton or John McCain or any of the other individuals running for president. It’s not about winning or exit polls or ego or how much money you spent or how good you looked or how you crafted a magical message that could both appeal to your base while not alienating anyone else.

The miracle is the message. The miracle is that after this long, exhaustive, surprising, humbling, amazing process that we call democracy, a genuine message is finally starting to emerge from the candidates. And, despite all the posturing and competition that this wonderful, imperfect process engenders, we are beginning to see a Chink in the Armor of The Expected and the Predictable--a tiny crack in which a little light may shine through.

The miracle is about letting go of the illusions that we think we need to win.

The victors in New Hampshire have found their true voices.

It’s no secret that Dog and I have not been too fond of Clinton recently. She seemed too polished, too rehearsed, too calculating. Rather than the strong, brilliant woman that she so obviously is, she seemed to be more about ambition and winning and her own achievement and less so about the greater good for which we imagine Political Service should be all about.

All that changed with one question in New Hampshire. Clinton was down in the polls, projected to lose to Obama by a margin of 10 points or more. It looked like her bright star was fading. She was pronounced a has-been by the media pundits who trounce upon any perceived weakness as an excuse for a news story.

Then Marianne Pernold Young, 64, asked Clinton what she had thought at the time would be a light, personal question…

“How do you do it?” she had asked Mrs. Clinton. “Who does your hair?”

Well, we all know that issue of “hair” can be incite all kinds of emotional trauma, but in this case it incited a little something more unexpected.

For the first time in a long time, or maybe ever, we got to glimpse an image of Hillary Clinton as a real person. And we got a glimmer of understanding of why, after she had already experienced the benefits and the grandeur of the office of president and made millions of dollars in writing and business, why she would persist amid rabid criticism, personal, venomous attacks and physical and emotional exhaustion. In her moment of weakness and vulnerability her ambition was raw—she wanted to make to make the country a better place.

And that moment, that truth gave her the victory in New Hampshire. As she said in her speech last night,

“Over the last week, I listened to you, and in the process I found my own voice.”

The other winner in New Hampshire last night also found his own voice.

In the summer of 2007, it looked like it was all over for McCain. His campaign contributions dwindled and his support among conservatives waned.

In a Feb 2007 Vanity Fair article, Todd S. Purdum sums up McCain’s problems…

“John McCain has spent this whole day, this whole year, these whole last six years, trying to "fix it," trying to square the circle: that is, trying to make the maverick, freethinking impulses that first made him into a political star somehow compatible with the suck-it-up adherence to the orthodoxies required of a Republican presidential front-runner.”

That didn’t work so well. When McCain was down, when there was no money coming in, when he had to fire the advisors and was forced to go it alone, guess what happened? He, too, found his own, genuine voice. And that resonated with America.

Although Dog and I do not in any way endorse Mike Huckabee, we must admit that, when he was trailing far behind in Iowa, he said one very wise thing in the Republican debates may have been what propelled him to the front of the pack in that state…

“I'll be true to my convictions, and I think that's what Americans look for -- not someone they're going to agree with on everything, but somebody who at least has some convictions, sticks with them, can explain them, and can at least have respect for people who have different ones.”

Dog says, “Amen!”

Let’s pray for more truth in the long months to come. Let’s hope for a future less focused on fear and more focused on love—Love of our country, love of all of the people in the country and love for all of the people in the world.

Dog bless you all.

Dog on Politics

2008-01-07T13:41:00.000-08:00

After the last couple of days of exhaustive, investigative journalism, Dog was ready to take a good, long nap.

But Dog cannot rest when the future of the free world hangs in the balance!

Unfortunately Dog insisted that we Tivo the Debates in New Hampshire.

Snooze! More of the same old rhetoric! The whole thing makes Dog wonder if anyone has anything new/genuine to say that hasn’t been vetted by the pollsters/campaign spinners.

Dog only wishes that Brad Pitt would have thrown his hat in the ring to make things a little more visually interesting. (OK, Dog insists that this is me talking again. Sorry!) Fortunately for us, the Tivo stopped recording the debates when the new episode of Desperate Housewives came on.

We missed the Republican debate, which we are only very minorly, marginally sad about.

Cut to Live TV…

Oh, Wait! CNN is running a tape of Hillary in which she seems to break down. According to Wolf Blitzer, “Her Eyes Welled Up and Her Voice Broke.”

“I have so many opportunities from this country,” she says. “I just don’t want to see us fall backwards. This is very personal for me. It’s not just political. It's not just public. I see what’s happening. We have to reverse it. “ (voice wavering)

And, in a soft voice, “Some people think elections are a game. It’s like who’s up or who’s down. It’s about our country. It’s about our kids’ futures. It’s about all of us together.”

If this is real, Dog has a new opinion of Hillary. Either she has had some really good acting coaching, or Hillary has hit a breaking point in which she realizes what is really important. For the first time, Dog resonates with Hillary's message.

Dog’s dream is that all the candidates who are listening to their spinning consultants and who are attacking each other will decide that their Ego and their own victory is not the most important thing.

Dog asks, What if all the candidates had, as their top concern, the absolute best for our country and the World?

No Ego, No Competition, No Ideas of Winning or Losing. What could be more Un-American?

Or, maybe, what could be more uniquely American?

What if there were a major shift in perception in this election? What if America asked for a miracle?

Dog Endorses ????? for President! (Part 2)

2008-01-06T16:52:00.000-08:00

Thank Dog, our investigation did not uncover any horrifying acts of cruelty or murder against dogs among any of the leading Democratic contenders or their immediate families!

Dennnis Kucinich

In fact, one of the Democrats, Dennis Kucinich just may be the most dog-friendly, pro-animal person to ever run for president:

• He is the only candidate with an official Animal Rights issue statement.
• He has taken a stand against tainted pet food and demanded answers from the FDA.
• He is the only vegan in Congress.

Whoa! Dog is impressed! A life without chicken treats or even cheese—all so that his actions match his beliefs! All that deprivation so that he can live a life free of hypocrisy! If you want change in the way American politics work, Dog can think of no greater role model!

Dog loves what Kucinich says in his Animal Rights platform:

Every one of us knows a story of animal cruelty (editor’s note: especially the Republicans, except for McCain); every one of us knows how in one way or another official policies have sanctioned cruelty to animals. I am working to put compassion into action in our policies with respect to animals in this country and to have America set a higher standard, not only for this country, but for the world; to make sure that all of God's creatures, that all animals are given a chance to have dignity in our society and are given a chance to experience the appreciation they should have as living beings.

Kucinich’s motto is “Strength through Peace.”

Dog says, "Dennis Kucinich, You rock!”

Hillary Clinton

Dog feels bad about it, but he just can’t endorse Clinton. He totally thinks she’s smart and hard-working and all. And Dog would love to see America elect a woman president. And, like many of us, he does miss the Clinton years, and although he wasn’t yet born, he can appreciate the nostalgia of a time of relative peace and stability and economic prosperity.

But Dog has some instinctual resistance to Hillary. Although Dog normally loves women and children, he tends to growl at most men in his fiercest guard dog manner. Dog thinks that if he were to meet Hillary and Bill on a walk, he would greet Bill with a wagging tail… and growl at Hillary. Enough said.

Or maybe not quite enough…

Hillary doesn’t seem to be much of a “dog person,” even though the Clinton’s have a “family dog,” a chocolate lab named Seamus. But Seamus is widely known as “Bill’s dog.”

Hillary strikes Dog as more of a “cat person”—not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Seinfeld would say.

But Dog is worried that Hillary may have been using her White House cat, Socks, as a means of manipulation, of softening her cold public image. Even though she wrote a book featuring Socks and White House dog, Buddy (who was hit by a car after leaving the White House) and wrote that only with the arrival of Socks did the White House become a home, once her time in Washington was done, so was the cat. She abandoned Socks to Bill’s personal secretary, Betty Currie. At least she didn’t hang the cat.

John Edwards

Dog has nothing bad to say about John Edwards. Dog likes the fact that he is a “Son of a Mill Worker” and that he worked hard to make his own way in the world and that any money or material positions he has now, he totally earned on his own. That’s the American Way in action! (Of course, Dog is purebred and sired from a World Champion Havanese, and has ancestrial papers that would stretch out longer than our driveway, but he is not a snob! He has been adopted into a family of Commoners of mixed origins and he is quite content with his simple life among simple people.)

Unlike others, Dog doesn’t have a problem with $400 haircuts. Dog, himself, refuses to go to the regular dog groomers. Instead, I have to cajole him and pet him and hand-feed him chicken treats and trim a little bit here and there over several hours when he needs a cut, prompting my husband to say that Dog has a $400 haircut himself. And, if you can get away with it, why not? is Dog's way of thinking!

Also, Edwards posed on the cover of Men’s Vogue with his pet dog. And he has three dogs, including two new puppies, Rufus and Lilly.

From his Website…

Our family includes three dogs – Bella, Rufus and Lilly – because my wife Elizabeth and I believe that taking care of a pet is a great joy that helps teach our children responsibility and compassion for others. Take note, Mike Huckabee!

Also, Edwards is against puppy mills! Again from his Website:

I support legislation to address the chronic animal welfare problems associated with puppy mills. Effective legislation would include better enforcement and higher penalties for violators, with a goal of removing the bad actors while not overly burdening reputable breeders.

Plus, Grandma likes Edwards and Dog likes Grandma.

Barrack Obama

Not much information about Obama regarding dog-friendliness. We know that he doesn’t have a dog now, but that his kids made a deal with him that if he ran for president they would get a dog.

Also, there is a Webiste Puppies4Obama which is pretty darn cute and speaks to his appeal to dog lovers!

Some people have doubts about Obama because of his “lack of experience.” This doesn’t bother Dog. After all, I had a complete lack of experience before Dog came to live with us and it’s worked out pretty Dog-gone well for everyone.

Dog believes that experience is not nearly as important as intelligence and a good heart, and Obama seems to have plenty of both.

Plus, Oprah likes him and Dog idolizes Oprah!

Dog’s Conclusion:

If you must vote Republican, vote McCain.

If you are a dreamer with uncompromising high standards, vote Kucinich.

Otherwise, let’s pray for an Edwards/Obama or Obama/Edwards ticket.

Dog Endorses ????? for President!

2008-01-05T19:31:00.000-08:00

The time has come. Iowa has caucused and New Hampshire is debating and the situation is so crazy and undecided that even California (in its Feb 5 primary) may finally have a say in who runs for president in 2008.

The race is as turbulent as Dog’s tummy after too much salami. Onetime frontrunners Guiliani and Clinton don’t look quite so invincible anymore. The special interest groups are circling the wagons around their favorite candidates: The Evangelicals are pushing Huckabee to the front of the pack; Feminists and Liberals and Friends of Bill are barking up Hillary’s tree; Mafiaos, serial adulterers, swarmy big businesses and crooked New York City civil servants have made Guiliani their Alpha Dog.

• (Dog apologizes and wants you to know that that last bit was totally my own. In fact, he absolves all responsibility for what is obviously my interpretation of his positions, and will not be held legally or morally culpable for anything that follows.)

So, where are the Dogs in this process? Since things turned out so spectacularly bad for us in the last two elections using our human brains (or to be more accurate, using the Supreme Court’s brain in 2000 and about 51% of the population’s brain in 2004), isn’t it time we tried something different?

The time has come for Americans to listen to their Dogs! Early primary voters, take your dogs out to the presidential pep rallies! Watch their reactions. Do they growl? Bark? Hump the candidate’s leg? Wag their tail? There is a message there, America! Pay Attention!

Dog thinks we should follow our nose in choosing our next president. Since Dog has not had the opportunity to personally sniff any of the candidates (with the exception of the time aboard the UFO with Kucinich, but Dog is saving that experience for his memoir) he must base his opinions from watching the debates with me (oh, he wanted to switch the channel to Animal Planet, but I insisted that we be informed citizens!) and the investigative info we have dug up, and Oh My! What we have found would curl your tail!

Today, we will address the Republicans. In all fairness, I must admit that Dog normally leans left, but he is willing to have an open mind (and an open mouth if there are treats involved.)

Mike Huckabee

Let’s begin with the newly coronated king of the Republican party—the darling of the right wing—Mike Huckabee. Dog was all ready to give him a tail wag—the homesy charisma (he’s funny!) and, of course, Dog is a big believer in God, although Dog is a little wary about how the Republicans tend to interpret her will. Still, Huckabee seemed like the kind of a guy who would be willing to play slipper tug-of-war in the Oval Office.

You can imagine Dog’s shock and horror when he learned that Huckabee’s son, David, tortured and hung a stray dog at a Boy Scout Camp! He confessed! And was fired from the camp! (for violating the Scout credo to be "kind” which seems to Dog a little more than an understatement.)

And then, Governor Huckabee intervened to prevent the state police from investigating further!

This is wrong, wrong, wrong in so many ways. Dog knows that parents are not to blame for all of their children’s mistakes, but come on—His Son Hung a Stray Dog! This is a way higher on the evil quotient than skipping school or smoking pot, which would probably freak out the Huckabee supporters. Dog asks you, “Can you imagine your child torturing and killing an innocent dog?”

We hope not. And, if you can, we hope that you are investing your time and money in intensive family counseling, not running for president of our great country.

Please do not vote for anyone who would raise a child who would kill an innocent dog.

Rudy Giuliani

As far as Dog is concerned, Rudy Giuliani is about on par with Huckabee, although he didn’t spawn evil, he just married it.

His third wife, Judy, worked for a surgical company that demonstrated their products on live dogs that either died in the demonstration or were killed later. Let’s be clear—this wasn’t research, which would be bad enough. This murdering of innocent dogs was done entirely as a sales pitch! Confetti, fireworks, free drinks, killing dogs! Whatever it takes to close that sale!

Please do not vote for someone who would marry someone who would kill dogs for profit!

Mitt Romney

It’s hard to believe that there could be yet another Republican who would incite Dog’s fury, but, yes, it is true.

Mitt Romney, the movie-star handsome, Mormon, ultra-family-oriented guy first aroused Dog’s suspicion when he began to waffle about really important issues. He heard a rumor that when Romney was running for governor of the liberal, dog-loving state of Massachusetts Romney was all for long walks and chicken treats.

But when Romney had to kowtow to the right wing of the Republican party, he did a 180 on treats and dog walks. Dog doesn’t buy this change of heart. Walks and chicken treats are core values! You don’t change your core values because of poll numbers!

Plus, once, Mitt Romney strapped his family’s Irish Setter into a crate onto the top of their station wagon for a 12-hour driver from Boston to Ontario, Canada.

Please think long and hard before you vote for someone who seems to change his mind about key issues involving ethics, morals and beliefs depending on what he believes people want to hear instead of what he truly believes. Also, someone who would make their family dog travel in a crate ontop of a car for 12 hours!

For all the Republican frontrunners-- Huckabee, Guiliani, Romney, Dog growls!

The only Republican that Dog could possibly endorse is John McCain. Dog doesn’t agree with his stance on the war, but Dog respects his opinion as the only major candidate to have served in a war, and the only candidate at all who could possibly understand “suffering.” Dog respects McCain’s heroism under suffering, even though the concept is completely foreign to Dog, who was freed from his crate at the tender age of 10 weeks when we adopted him. Also, McCain has 27 pets (more or less, counting the 13 fish), including two dogs.

Tomorrow, Dog sniffs the Democrats.

It's Better to Give Than to Receive

2007-12-31T11:11:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-12-25T18:54:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-17T15:44:00.001-08:00

Happy Holidays!!!

Happily Ever After

2007-12-14T16:49:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-12-13T11:28:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-12-12T13:33:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-12-11T18:01:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-12-10T18:23:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-07T16:28:00.001-08:00

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

2007-12-05T18:50:00.000-08:00

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

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

Continue reading here...

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

Talking Dogs

2007-11-28T16:09:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Peeing:

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

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

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

Dawn: I think it’s about four million.

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

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

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

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

On Instincts:

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

Amen!

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

We're Back!!!!

2007-11-26T18:17:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love the one you’re with.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2007-11-14T21:03:00.000-08:00

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

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

I know they will take fabulous care of him.

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

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

Wishing everyone out there in the blogosphere a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

2007-11-12T18:18:00.001-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe I’m just jealous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-11-09T18:18:00.000-08:00

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

I think the same could be said for writers.

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

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

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

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

Now onto the rest of the story….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course, that only made me want it more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I felt bad for about a minute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

2007-11-07T18:52:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And do you know what happened?

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

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

The Dalai Dog wins again.

Dog is a Master of the Four Agreements

2007-11-04T15:04:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can learn a lot from Dog.

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

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

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

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

Another Dalai Dog!

2007-11-02T21:39:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

But that's not all.

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

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

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

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

Bow-Wow-a-Ween in Pictures

2007-11-01T18:13:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

Where are they?!!!

There they are!

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

Happy Howl-o-ween

2007-10-31T06:39:00.000-07:00

Trick or Chicken Treat!

The Pupose of Life

2007-10-30T10:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That, Little Grasshopper, is the purpose of life.

Now, where’s my chicken treat?!

Sunny Day

2007-10-29T11:55:00.000-07:00

By Guest Blogger, The Dog Cuddler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, that is what I call a Sunny Day.

I Told You He Was Pupular

2007-10-28T18:26:00.000-07:00

This is sooooo cute!

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

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

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

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

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

The Power of Chicken Treats

2007-10-26T21:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

Sunny is a big foodie.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Otherwise he gets baby carrots for treats.

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

The Dog Cuddler

2007-10-25T13:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, back to the crying dog.

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

I guess I should have had puppies sooner.

Walking (the Dog) Meditation

2007-10-24T12:01:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Which is exactly why I NEED to meditate.

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

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

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

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

This is how it goes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is my perfect meditation.

He's So Pupular

2007-10-23T21:46:00.000-07:00

Today, as I drove my 8-year-old son to school, Sunny rode along—in his usual privileged position, perched on my lap, head thrust out of the window, enjoying the breeze. Other than getting treats or going for a walk, this is his favorite part of the day. He loves all the activity--watching the kids scurrying to school, seeing the occasional familiar face in the crowd.

Today he hit the doggie jackpot.

We were running late, so I committed a major carpool sin and pulled around to the back of the school, where there is basically no traffic, and I idled briefly to let my son out at the crosswalk, prepared to zip off and out of the way the moment he crossed the street.

Luckily for Sunny, another mom was running late, too—Auntie Ann, our good friend, neighbor, and most importantly, beloved keeper and cherisher of the dog whenever we go on vacation. Ann pulled up beside me, rolled down her window, smiled her gorgeous Homecoming Queen smile, and exclaimed, “Hi Sunny!” (I’m just his driver.)

By Sunny’s reaction you would have sworn that Santa Claus himself was sitting in the car next to us with a big sack of chicken treats and beef bones. He leaped over to the passenger side and lunged half of his furiously tail-wagging body out of the window, wild with happiness. Sunny does something that I have never seen (or heard) a dog do before—he literally cries with joy when he sees someone he loves. He whimpers like he’s in pain. The first time he did this, Ann thought she had stepped on him when she walked in the door. No, that’s not a broken paw, he’s just happy to see you. Really, really, really happy to see you.

Ann’s carload of kids swarmed out of her Suburban, and even though the bell had already rung and they were all late, each and every child stopped by the window of our car to give Sunny a vigorous pet and receive a warm, wet lick of a greeting in return. And they were all smiling, looking back and waving as they ran to their classes.

I get such a kick out of seeing how much Sunny loves certain people and how much they love him back. And how can they help it? When some living being cries with joy at the mere sight of you, jumping and beaming and panting for your attention, how could you help but be charmed?

I am reminded of something I once read in some self-help, motivational book: That if you want to be popular, you shouldn’t worry about how you look or what you wear or even making sparkling conversation. The real secret to popularity is not how fabulous you are, but how you make people feel about themselves when they are with you.

And to think, Sunny never even read that book.