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

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


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

I am more than a little uncomfortable admitting this publicly.

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

I don’t believe in crate-training.

Let me explain…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

(To be continued.)

Passion and Science and Intuition and Dogs

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

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

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

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

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

And we were momentarily in agreement.

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

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

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

My scientist husband laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

or quit chewing on your shoe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Dog's Sake! An Update!

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

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

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


Watch out, Cameron!

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

The Girls of Sunny

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

From the Aerosmith song (slightly adapted):

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

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

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

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

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




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


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


Dog shamelessly accosting Ann in the parking lot.

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

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


Cam and her wonderful blond twins.

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

Perfect Peace

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

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

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

And The Oscar Goes To...

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Get a Dog!

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

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

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

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

Uh, oh…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With Doggie Parenthood, not so much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentine's Day!

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!)

“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.