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Single Women are Families, Too

Rocky the Boxer has a new picture perfect family.   Which sucks for Rocky.   Rocky was surrendered to a shelter by his first family because “they did not have time for an energetic dog like him.”   Apparently this family is a family of Luddites who don’t know about Google; a little bit of research on the breed would have saved everyone involved heartache and aggravation.   Dogtime gives Boxers Five Stars for Energy Level, Intensity, Exercise Needs and Potential for Playfulness. Five equals the MOST. Not good if you don’t have time.   So, I guess as sad and irresponsible as it is to get and then give up a dog, at least Rocky had a second chance at finding a lifetime of love and special attention.   That is,...

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Millie and Me

Today is Millie’s birthday. She’s two years old. Yesterday was my birthday. Ha! As if I was going to tell how old I am. Besides, nobody is interested my birthday. Not even me.

 

Millie gets top billing today and every day. She’s a dog, after all, and dogs are better than people. They are easier to love, and they always love you back. At least eight or 10 humans didn’t love me back. But that’s a story for another day.

 

This is a dog tale. Like all canine chronicles, it is a story of a hero’s journey. But remember, it’s the journey that counts, not the destination.

 

Some dogs are born heroes. Lassie. Rin Tin Tin.

 

Some dogs have heroics thrust upon them. Lady. Tramp.

 

Some dogs have heroism buried deep within. Marley. Millie.

 

Marley?

All I Want for Christmas is Boo

Bad Santa

 

All I want for Christmas is Boo. My Boo Boo – Dempsey.

 

I don’t want a lot for Christmas
There is just one thing I need
I don’t care about the presents
Underneath the Christmas tree

I just want you for my own
More than you could ever know
Make my wish come true
All I want for Christmas is you, yeah.

              Mariah Carey, et al

 

 

Last Christmas, Dempsey started aging faster. His muzzle completely white, his coat was getting streaks that rivaled a suburban housewife’s highlights. He was nearly 11; for an abnormally huge Boxer, he was old. According to a chart at the animal hospital, my Boo Boo’s human age was 85-90.

 

 

He began urinating in the house a few times a week. Though puppy pee pads addressed some of the problem, as my socks soon discovered, male dogs have worse aim than male people.

 

 

The bigger problem with big dogs, other than the sucky life expectancy, is degeneration in their hindquarters and backs. Their hips don’t move like they used to, which is scary and uncomfortable for both of you.

 

 

It’s also why I didn’t take Boo Boo to see Santa last year. Not the good Santa, I mean: the mall Santa, with a real beard and belly like a bowl full of jelly. The kind that graduated from Santa University, Phi Beta Stocking-Kappa.

What To Do If Jessica Lange Is One of the Voices in Your Head

My Imaginary American Horror Story.

I survived torment not unlike Coven and Asylum- an all-girl Catholic High School filled with nuns and teenaged witches. My curse as an adult is an imagination capable of magnifying a glimmer of light into a disembodied eyeball peering through a second story window.

I am afraid of the dark. Things that go bump in the night terrify me.

Jessica Lange is one of the voices in my head.

What’s a scaredy cat to do?

Get a dog.

I haven’t had a pooch-free day since the 80’s. As a result, unless my insomnia attacks me, my mind rests rather easily most of the time.

One dark and stormy night, (because every horror story, imaginary, American or otherwise, needs thunder and lightning), an explosion of glass blasted me and both dogs out of our collective snoring and dreaming. We froze, three huddled masses beneath a make-shift shield of sheets and blankets.

“Go see. Go, go see.” I whispered vehemently, trying to rile Samantha and George, my Boxers, into storming the front-door.

Go see yourself, their faces said back, without so much as a muscle twitch. We all stopped breathing as well, to listen for clues about the intrusion.

I didn’t hear anything. More to the point, I didn’t hear anyone. If a prowler was in the house, I reasoned, the dogs would go crazy. They would bark incessantly and viciously at a strange person, I was convinced.

At that moment, as they hid under the comforter, I had to wonder if my certainty was misplaced.

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