We All Need a Purpose

“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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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!!!

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

I feel a Dog Blog coming on...

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

Dog and I have had a lot on our minds.

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

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

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

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

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

And I did it!


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

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

Gratitude and the Broken Toe

I’m big on gratitude.

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

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

A few gems from the book:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Top Ten Things to Be Grateful About Breaking My Toe:

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


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

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

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

Crazy Dog Lady and The Broken Toe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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







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

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

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

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

The Last Lecture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There are no words. You must see it.

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

Wow!

So, the tenuous connection…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More Law of Attraction! Vision Boards!

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

My board tended toward Beach Vacations and Lots of Words:


And, of course, my big career goal dream:


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


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

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


What does your Vision Board look like?