Making Up

Saturdays around our house are spent tying up loose ends: laundry, maybe some yard work, last minute grocery shopping. A phone call from a customer changed Tom's plans. He had spoken to his customer earlier in the week but had forgotten that he promised to meet her on Saturday morning. Damn. It would take two hours out of his morning because the customer lives in a small suburb outside of Little Rock.

Tom finally arrived back home about 11:30. I was in the office accomplishing nothing more than reading the news websites and logging in and out of Facebook responding to messages from family and friends.

As is his custom, Joe stood looking at Tom, tail fluttering rapidly, waiting for his god to acknowledge his presence and lift him to his rightful perch on Tom's lap. But once there, Joe began sniffing around Tom's body, up his arms then down to his hands, the stopped abruptly with his paws on Tom's chest, staring at his face.

"Yes, Joe. I've been unfaithful," Tom said. "I've been with another dog."

The customer owned a big, black, friendly lab that left his saliva and scent on Tom's hands, arms and legs in appreciation for the attention Tom bestowed on him.

Joe stood still staring at Tom's face for a long time, then turned around and climbed onto his lap, balancing on Tom's right thigh. Tom reached over and lifted Joe to the floor and got up from his desk chair and headed for the laundry room.

The usual laundry routine is simple. Tom goes through the den to the laundry room and Joe goes to the fireplace hearth in the den and waits for Tom to sit down in his chair next to the hearth, at which point Tom picks up Joe and places him on the chair next to him where Joe promptly goes to sleep.

Not this time.

"I think Joe did something he's not supposed to do," I heard Tom yell at me.

"Why?" I yelled back.

"Because he's acting weird," Tom replied.

I got up from my chair in the office and we both started wandering around the house looking at the floor for an "accident." Nothing.

Tom walked back into the den and Joe didn't follow. Tom called him. Joe walked in the opposite direction.

Completely out of character, Joe refused to go into the den. He wandered aimlessly around the house and finally sat hiding between the couch and coffee table in the living room. When I found him, I carried him into the kitchen and placed him in his bed thinking he would get bored without company and go into the den beside Tom to get comfortable. When I finished filling my water glass, I turned around and Joe was gone, so I looked in the den.

"Is Joe with you?"

"No."

I went back into the living room assuming he would be between the couch and coffee table. No Joe. I looked in the office. Nope. I looked in our bedroom. No sign of him... until I turned toward the bathroom where I could barely see him in the dark on the white rug. Very. Weird. Behavior.

Of course, by this time I am envisioning vet bills in multiple thousands because Joe has most likely ingested some sort of poison that our neighbors sprayed so carelessly in their yard which then seeped into our yard because of the rain this morning, so I start examining him for foaming at the mouth, blood from his anus, pale gums and signs of vomiting. Nothing. I put him back down on the floor and he just stood there.

"We need to watch him closely, Tom. He's acting way too weird."

I went back to the kitchen, grabbed my glass of water and went to the office to work on my food blog. As soon as I settled in my chair and took a sip of water, Tom yelled from our bedroom.

"He's under the bed!"

"Well, get him out from underneath the bed," which was accompanied by a silent eye roll.

"I can't! He's too little and keeps backing up!"

Exasperated, I got up from my chair and walked the few steps to the door of our bedroom. Tom was laying on his side on the floor on the opposite side of the bed and I looked over to my left as Joe walked out from underneath the other side of the bed.

I picked Joe up, tail wagging a little, but as Tom stood up and approached, it stopped.

"Did you inadvertently step on him or something?" I asked.

"No."

"Are you sure? He just doesn't want to come near you."

This is the dog that, beginning at 2:00 sharp every single work day, stands in the kitchen next to the table staring out toward the living room window until he catches a glimpse of Tom's work van pull into the driveway and proceeds to go berserk until he finally comes through the garage door into the laundry room.

I handed Joe to Tom and said, "Maybe you just need to take him into the den and sit him on the chair next to you and see what he does."

I followed them into the den.

Tom sat down and sat Joe down beside him in "his spot." But instead of laying down next to him, Joe climbed up on Tom's lap, then up his chest and started sniffing again, then commenced licking furiously, starting at the shoulder then working his way down Tom's arm.

As I write this, Joe is finally sound asleep in "his spot" next to Tom, so I guess Tom has finally been forgiven for his blatant infidelity. However, I will insist that Tom take a shower before he climbs into bed tonight.

Time For A Trade-In??

I think I need to get a cat.

Cats are quieter and have acceptable social skills. They don't jump around your ankles and bark incessantly for attention when you're trying to talk to your neighbor or to the girl scouts who've come to the door to sell their cookies (two evenings in a row, we're trying to carry on a conversation and Joe is bouncing around our feet, barking constantly, refusing to acknowledge that we've said "No!" about a dozen times).

Cats don't have abandonment issues and whine pitifully all the way home after dropping off their "favorite person" at the auto repair shop (this morning at 7:30, from the moment Tom got out of the car until I pulled into our garage almost 15 minutes later and lifted him from his bed and out of the car, Joe whined like he'd just seen his best friend walk out the door forever).

Cats are better at self-grooming and, therefore, don't stink. They don't acquire an odiferous aura that almost makes your eyes water and requires bathing every other week to merely tolerate their presence (I gave him a bath, what, 2 weeks ago? And he already stinks. Another bath tomorrow).

Cats don't make loud slurping and chewing noises while cleaning their private parts (good lord!).

Cats discreetly use their own private bathroom facilities. They don't insist on your presence, encouragement or begging six times in an hour and a half before you go to bed (every night, starting around 8:30, the ritual begins, every 15 minutes or so until it's time for us to go to bed, but by then he's sound asleep and snoring and nearly impossible to wake up for his last call before bed).

The only negative thing about owning a cat is the little furry, bloody, dead (hopefully) "gift" brought home and dropped at your feet on the kitchen floor.

Gifts from a dog are the occasional flea that makes the leap from his back to your leg, or the month-old bone and pieces of kibble strewn on the bottom of the washer because they were buried in the recesses of his bed before laundering.

Lucky for Joe, he sleeps about 18 hours a day and I have some quiet time to take some deep breaths and reconsider giving him free-agent status.

One Weird Dude

Joe has issues. If he was human he'd be diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder. He'll lick and chew his front paws until they are soaking wet. When I tell him to STOP!, he licks the air. When I take him with me to run errands, I put his bed in the passenger seat of the car and he will lay quietly and lick the side of his bed until he has an ugly wet spot almost twice the size of his head. He doesn't like to touch the wet or damp grass with his paws, so he will walk around the perimeter of the yard where Tom's edges the lawn and the grass is almost non-existent until he reaches THE spot where he ventures out onto the grass to...well, you know. And at 2:00pm every single weekday, he will stand fixated, immobile and rigid as long as necessary at the doorway to the dining room, facing the living room where he can see through the front window when Tom arrives home. He is one weird dude.

Earlier this the summer, Joe started chewing his hind legs and butt just above his tail. Although he spends as little time as possible outside, I thought he picked up some fleas. I checked him closely. No fleas that I could see. To be on the safe side, I bathed him with pennyroyal shampoo. I didn't see any dead fleas in the sink or on his wet coat. But, even before he was completely dry he continued to chew. When he started chewing until his skin started to bleed, I knew it was time to do something more serious.

I took him to the vet. Dr. Chris found one flea under Joe's tail and immediately diagnosed him with an allergy to flea saliva {of course}. One steroid shot, a small bottle of steroid pills and a $30 flea repellant pill later, I had a incontinent dog that peed repeatedly at will on my new living room rug. He didn't even bother to lift his leg. He would just stand there looking up at me and pee. He clearly had no control. I felt sorry for the little guy, but I was pissed off just the same, or maybe just frustrated, or maybe both.

After a desperate call to the vet, we stopped giving Joe the steroid pills because he was, of course, allergic to flea saliva AND steroids and in less than 24 hours he stopped peeing on the rug. Yay!!

Then he started to chew again. He couldn't have fleas. I'd given him the flea pill already. What else could it be? I'd read about dogs developing food allergies and thought maybe that was Joe's problem. So, off to PetSmart I went to find a new dog food to replace his "Little Bites" (a 4 pound bag for around $6 bucks at the grocery store which lasted about a month and a half). Now he eats an all natural, top of the line something-or-other in a 4 pound blue bag for around $20 bucks.

Joe didn't have any problems changing food like some dogs do. He went from eating the cheap old kibble to eating the new expensive kibble without turning his nose up {insert my shocked face}. It seemed to be the only issue he didn't have. And the best part?: he pretty much stopped chewing his butt. Apparently it was a food allergy after all.

But then a couple of months later.....

No, we do not own a rabbit that is allowed free reign in our house. Nor do we have rats or badgers.


Joe has merely acquired another issue. He doesn't like the dark brown ones.

Joe scoops up three or four pieces of kibble in his mouth, drops them on the floor and eats the ones he likes and leaves the brown ones sitting on the floor around his food bowl.

I can't say I've never seen this sort of canine behavior before. About 20 years ago, we owned a ShiTzu named Gizmo. Gizmo hated peas, but we'd always try to trick him to eating them. When we gave him table scraps, we'd mix the meat, gravy, mashed potatoes and peas all together in Gizmo's bowl thinking he'd never be able to tell the difference. But when he was finished, he would have licked the bowl clean except for that handful of cooked peas that looked like they'd been washed and left to dry at the bottom of the bowl.

We can sure pick 'em, can't we.

A Breakthrough

Well, I do believe Joe has at least some minimal learning capabilities. I'm shocked. I didn't think it was possible.

I'm away from home at least two mornings a week. It's been so hot that I don't like putting Joe outside while I'm gone, even with a bowlful of water. So, I put him in the laundry room with his bed, water and food. But I take him outside before I leave and even when I'm home I take him out about the same time every morning. 

My directive is quite simple. As I stand with the back screen door ajar, I merely say {in the most stern voice I can muster}, "Joe. Let's go!" and I wave my arm toward the yard.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I have to follow him out to make sure he doesn't poop or pee on the patio, as he seems to have an aversion to grass, particularly if it's even the slightest bit damp, since he has convinced himself that he is an inside-only dog and all.

It's quite remarkable. I didn't know dogs could poop and pee on command instead of waiting for the urge. But now at least the command center is finally our backyard and no longer the living room carpet.

A Day in the Life

Have you ever wondered what your dog is thinking when Fido sits at your feet and stares at you? Is he thinking, I'm hungry, feed me? Or, I'm feeling a little insecure and I could use a pat on the head right about now? Or maybe, I sure hope you don't find that shoe I chewed up and buried in the corner of the backyard.

Tom and I have often wished someone would invent a real 'talking dog collar" like the one in the animated Disney movie, UP. The collar receives brain signals from the dog, translates them into human English words and sentences, and Voila! the dog is communicating in words we understand.

We have wracked our brains trying to come up with a method that will capture, if not what our dog Joe is thinking, at the very least what his daily life experience is like. I believe we've finally accomplished our goal.

Through the magic of telegenic science, we have penetrated the very recesses of Joe's consciousness. While this experiment does not provide the comprehensive conversational exchange between a human and pet as a talking dog collar would, we have been able to at least transform Joe's consciousness it into a visually stunning depiction of how Joe experiences the world around him.

The experience is so overwhelming to the human psyche, we recommend you watch the 44-second video once, then take a break to allow your mind to process what you've seen. But, we believe this provides a definitive portrayal of Joe's chaotic day.

The Right Choice?

We've had Joe, our 6-pound mostly Maltese, for just over a year. He's a pretty darn good dog. He doesn't bark a lot except to greet Tom when he gets home. If the door is open so he can access his doggie door, he pees and poops outside. If the door is closed, he just stands and stares at you with his legs crossed, as if to say, "Helllooo, the door is CLOSED!" If we are watching tv or reading, he sleeps in Tom's lap or the couch on his pillow. If I'm working in the office, he sleeps on the floor on the carpet or in the extra desk chair. At night, he sleeps at the end of our bed on a towel (thanks for the idea Rickey!!).

But you know how I know he is the perfect dog for us? We have discovered that he is warm weather dog, perfect for a Florida environment. Even though he's never been to Florida, we just KNOW he would rather live there than any place else.

How on earth would we know that he would rather be in Florida? Thank you for asking.

This winter has been unbelievably cold, but we often leave the door cracked open so Joe can go in and out at will. The kitchen gets really cold because of the open door, so I set a small space heater on the floor in the kitchen pointed in the direction of the back door to help offset the cold draft.

Joe loves that heater. He will lay under the bar chairs in the kitchen about 3 feet away from the heater, directly in its path, his fur moving in the warm heater breeze. When he stretches out and faces directly toward the heater breeze, you can just tell he's having a laying-in-the-sun-with-a-warm-breeze-blowing-I'd-rather-be-in-Florida little doggie fantasy.

Yet another reason to move to Florida ~ to make my little dog's dreams come true.

The Myth of Man's Best Friend

My dog is not what I expected.

When a person acquires a dog, one has certain expectations.

Me? I had visions of running through fields of flowers with my dog running at my side, tongue flapping in the wind. Or how about sitting in the sun on newly mown grass with my dog laying quietly at my feet. Or sitting under the vine-covered pergola watching my dog lying in the grass in the shade of a tree spying on a squirrel nibbling on the cob of corn hanging from the bird feeder post.

Sadly, none of those visions would be Joe.

Joe does not like the outdoors. He is a steadfast indoor dog. He likes carpet. He likes the couch, more specifically His pillow on the couch. In the alternative, Tom's office desk chair that sits next to mine will do in a pinch. The nice cool tile floor feels mighty nice on a hot belly on a warm day. When he becomes bored with following us from room to room, he naps in his little cushy bed situated at the end of the dining room.

Of course, sometimes he has to go outside so we've made it easy for Joe to come and go as he pleases in the back yard. Tom has replaced the bottom third of the screen door with plexiglass on one side and a doggie door on the other side. Most of the time the back door is open, if only just enough to allow Joe access to the screen door.

Outside, in Joe's world, is for peeing and pooping and little else. And where he pees and poops is just as important as when. For instance, he does not pee or poop in the rain...EVER. Nor will he pee or poop on wet (Ewww, ewww, ewww) grass. That's why covered patios were invented. Same for hot, sunny days. Run out to the patio. Poop. Pee. Back in the house.

We're lucky that he is a Mostly Maltese and not a big Golden Retriever or Boxer or Lab. Little dogs = little turds. Easy peasy.

This morning was glorious. It was in the mid-60's with a slight breeze, although it had rained overnight. Tom and I were enjoying our morning coffee out on the patio for the first time in months, something we absolutely love to do. But, uncharacteristically, Joe did not follow us. We sat for at least 15 minutes. No Joe. We wondered if we had inadvertently closed the door so Joe could not access his doggie door. A quick check...no the door was open. Well, maybe he was asleep and didn't realize we were gone. Highly unlikely.

Tom called Joe and he emerged through the door....sort of....

Joe poked his head through the doggie door...paused...then disappeared back into the house. Thanks, but no thanks.

He's such a Diva.

Penis Envy

Joe is a small dog. When he arrived at our home from the shelter, he weighed in at just over five pounds.

Joe was dirty, his coat was stained from lack of care and his last haircut (judging by the raggedly "bangs") was apparently done by a six year old with an unauthorized pair of scissors. He looked just like the homeless ragamuffin that he was.

Here is Joe in January of this year, in all of his little hobo glory. Yes, you can say "Awwwww."

Well, today Joe weighs in at a whopping six pounds. I guess it's all the good chow we feed him. Plus that dog can hear a pita chip bag open a mile away and he comes running. He's a cruncher and loves any kind of food that gives him the crunch he desires. He refuses any sort of wet dog food, but goes right for the kibble, eating one piece at a time, crunching every single bite.

We started taking Joe into the groomers every five to six weeks or so for a bath and fur and nail trim. We don't stick around to watch, but we are told he shakes the entire time. He has abandonment issues.

I know I mentioned that the last time we took him to the groomer, Joe got a haircut. Typical of hair stylists who have lost their hearing, we requested a trim, but got was a buzz cut. Needless to say, we are looking for a new groomer whose hearing is intact.

So, this photo was taken just a week or so before Joe got a haircut...


He is, of course, in his favorite position, Adoration of Favored Standing Male Person.

Then, this photo was taken the day after Joe got his haircut...


Sadly, his new goofy, skinny-body-bushy-head-and-tail look is not the topic of frequent conversation. No, we are even beneath making fun of Joe. Instead, we marvel at the size of his penis. The dude is hung for a dog his size. I mean really. He has a tallywacker (my Aunt Sally's word for penis) the size of which any Doberman or Lab would be proud.

You can check it out for yourself...



We had Joe neutered just a few days after we rescued him, so he can't do much with this amazing appendage except pee, but Geeze Louise it is a great topic of conversation.

It's not that we are obsessed with penises. We're not. I don't want to give that impression, even though I'm afraid I already have. But it's hard not to notice. After all, it's just sticking out there in plain site, big as day (pun intended). And with noticing comes comments and after comments comes jokes, followed by laughter. All at Joe's expense.

I think we'll all be glad when Joe's hair grows back so we can stop making all these stupid, adolescent penis jokes and revert back to being just boring old farts again.

"Give a man a fish and feed him for a day. Give him a fishing lesson and he'll sit in a boat drinking beer every weekend." - Alex Blackwell

It looks like the boat trade will go through. We have a verbal agreement and the new owner of our boat has scheduled a day next week to have Tom help him put our-old/his-new boat on the trailer.

Tom drove back up to the lake again today and ran into his brother-in-law, Bill, and they went over to the new boat to go through it one more time. Bill is also a sailor, so Tom asked Bill last week if he would check out the "potential" new boat before Tom met with the owner yesterday. Bill emailed Tom a detailed list of everything he found, plus a list of pros and cons. I was glad Tom asked Bill because I knew his inspection would be very detailed.

So here are some photos Tom took with his phone today.

We are going up to the lake Friday (if it doesn't rain) and I'll take better photos then.

In other news, Joe's excessive haircut is proving to be a problem. He's getting cold. How do I know? Well, when he lays down next to Tom or me in the morning when temperatures are cooler, he shivers. It sounds stupid, but we've taken to covering him up with a blanket to warm him up. I've never had to do that for a dog before.

The painting of the doors and trim in the nursery and kids' room at the church is done, except for maybe some touch up. The dark blue does not cover well, even after two coats. I might have to spend an additional hour or so going over the light spots. But, YAY!!!, it's done! Now I can start working on my house.

And, I'm not even touching the Couch-2-5K subject...

"Everything is something you decide to do, and there is nothing you have to do." ~ Denis Waitley

I have to be reminded from time to time that there is nothing that I have to do, except maybe pay my bills on time and pay taxes.

Up until just recently, I always felt like if there was something that needed to be done and no one else volunteered to do it, I almost always did the volunteering. I don't feel like that anymore. If I don't do it, the world will not come to an end as we know it.

I have decided that once I finish the things I've committed to or volunteered for, that's it. I'm going to focus on the things that I personally want to do or need to accomplish before I volunteer for anything else. Not a big decision in the scope of things but it's been on my mind, nagging me...paint, paint, paint...the kitchen, the den, the trim, the entryway, the office, our bedroom and bath. In addition, I have two rag quilts I want to make, books I want to read and recipes and photos I want to post on my food blog. I am going to spend as much time on weekends as I possibly can on the lake in a cove lounging in my floatie. I am going to take a trip to Savannah over the Memorial Day weekend. I also want to take another trip to San Francisco and Fresno sometime before the first of the year. When Chris and his family move from Savannah to Florida this summer, I'd like to help with that. I have plans and I'll accomplish them without guilt, thank you very much.

On another note, Tom is hoping to trade his sailboat and trailer for a larger sailboat. The bigger boat is about the size of the boat we owned and had moored in Oceanside Marina when we lived in California. We used to comfortably spend the weekend on it. I would really look forward to doing that more here, too. I am feeling the need to get out of town more often on the weekends, away from the daily and weekly routines. We won't know for sure until sometime next week when the owner of the other boat confirms the trade.

Joe got a bath and a haircut yesterday.

Remember this?

Poor guy looks naked now...


Don't you think he looks a little like Giada DeLaurentis from the Food Network? Big head, skinny body??

The groomer was a slightly aggressive with the clippers and took off a little more than we wanted. Luckily fur grows and he won't look stupid for very long. We'll just keep reassuring him until he looks normal.

Well, Tom is napping. He hurt his back on Friday so he's actually taking care of himself.

I have Chris' barbecued ribs in a very slow oven. I'll finish them on the grill for dinner. I already finished making the Blue Cheese Potato Salad and it's in the refrigerator. I made some Roasted Tomatillo Salsa (Rick Bayless' recipe) that we will have with dinner tomorrow night - Black Bean and Chorizo Tostados. The rest of the afternoon is mine...so I am blogging. Today...it's about me!

“Masculinity is not something given to you, but something you gain. And you gain it by winning small battles with honor.” ~ Norman Mailer

My husband, Tom, is a big 200+ pounder with tattooed arms and possesses definite "guy skills". Even at his age, the low side of 60, he's able to lift huge sheets of plywood by himself, carry boxes of heavy iron balusters, rip shrubs and trees out by their roots, build fences and dig deep holes with little difficulty. He could take a pocket knife and toothpicks into the woods and build a cozy cabin. Oh, he's that good.

Usually Tom's quite comfortable with his masculinity and doesn't feel the least bit feminine wearing a pink shirt with his jeans. Actually pink is a good color for him. But, the other day he said we needed to cut the hair on Joe's feet because it is so long that it curls up and he looks like he has on pixie shoes. He's mentioned this at least twice a day for the last few days and I'm beginning to think he's embarrassed to be seen with Joe and his pixie feet.

Tom says he's just looking out for Joe and his masculinity, but com'on, how much masculinity can a fluffy white fur ball project? No, I definitely think it is his own masculinity that Tom's worried about.

It's perfectly acceptable and doesn't have any negative impact on his masculinity whatsoever to be the big guy with tattooed arms and calloused knuckles shadowed by a little, bouncing, adoring 5-pound fluffy white fur ball with a black nose and pink tongue. And, of course, definitely not threatening to his masculinity by giving this little fur ball a place to quietly sleep in his lap. And, absolutely not threatening to his masculinity to carry on a lengthy, obviously one-sided conversation with said fur ball. All of this is perfectly acceptable.

But, pixie feet? Yep, we draw the line at pixie feet.

A Middle of the Night Rant!!!

I don't often get up in the middle of night, but here it is 3:24am and I am wide awake and adrenalin is coursing through my veins.

Our dog, Joe, has been barking for almost two hours. Grrrrr.

The first night we had him, we found out that he was not house broken. So, of course, I hit the internet looking for how to house break an older dog. Cage training. Sounded real good. When you go to bed or leave the house you put the dog in a cage big enough for them to move around very comfortably, making sure they do their "business" before they are confined. The premise is that it appeals to their den instincts so they will feel comforted and they won't soil "where they live."

Fine. We started that the second night. Joe did well. He slept all night. We took him out first thing in the morning and periodically throughout the day. He only had two other accidents during the day on the second and third day. We did that routine every day and every night after that, until now, the ninth night.

Tonight he started barking at 1:30am and he hasn't stopped. We moved him (in his cage) to the den. More barking. After another 1/2 hour, we moved him to the laundry room and closed the door. More barking. Another 1/2 hour, we moved him out to the garage (it's heated, just in case you're wondering). He's still barking.

Now I know some people will say, Just take him to bed with you. He just wants to be close to you. To those folks I say: Sorry, but I don't sleep with my animals. I know some people do. That's fine for them, but it's not fine for me. I like sleeping with my husband. And just my husband. Well, except for a grandchild. I'd invite a grandchild to sleep with us and have on many occasions. But still, a grandchild is a person and sadly I do differentiate between my people relationships and my animal relationships.

Now I figure I have two choices. Choice number one: I just suck it up and listen to the barking all night. Choice number two: I let Joe out of the cage and clean up pee and poop in the morning. I don't like either choice.

Is there such a thing as bad pet karma 'cause I think we have it.

"There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face." ~ Ben Williams

Except when that puppy has about a quarter of an inch of gross tarter on his teeth and he has the most disgusting, nasty-ass breath EVER!

Meet Joe...

Yep, all 5 pounds, 6 ounces of him. Yes, he's also the one with the nasty-ass breath. What's that joke? He has "Zackly breath." It smells "zackly" like his ass. Actually worse, although I don't really go around smelling dog butts. Yeah, well, anyway....we adopted him last Tuesday from the local animal shelter. He was in a large dog run all by himself and came over to the front of the run to greet me, tail wagging. If he could smile, I think he would have been grinning ear to ear. But then, a smile like that would have revealed the gross teeth, so perhaps that's why he chose to just wag his tail, look me directly in the eye and proceed to lick my fingers when I stuck them through the chain link to touch him.

The people at the shelter said they thought he was about two years old, but we found out later he is more likely about 5 years old. Joe's supposed to be all white, but his coat, particularly around his feet, ears and under his eyes, are stained from lack of care and irregular bathing. And somebody gave him a real bad haircut, like with kitchen sheers. It looks like they chopped the hair off in clumps off the top of his head.

We've already had him to the vet twice. The first time just for a check up and rabies vaccination. I didn't take him to our regular vet. Dr. Chris' office is about 15 miles out of town and I thought rather than driving out there I'd check out a vet that's only a block or so from where we live. We could have walked over for our appointment had it not been raining. The new vet proceeded to tell me that Joe's mouth was infected, which was why he was coughing, and that his teeth were pretty bad and needed to be cleaned. Okay, no problem. They will clean his teeth when he is neutered tomorrow. In the meantime, the vet gave us antibiotics for the infection which we were to administer twice a day ~ once in the morning and once at night. That was last Thursday.

I've had lots of animals over my lifetime - dogs, cats, sheep, chickens, rabbits, ducks, geese - and have never had a difficult time administering meds to any of them. It's generally just part of the routine and you learn to do it quickly. But Joe did not take well to having human fingers attempt to shove even the most itsy-bitsy, tiny capsule down his throat. No matter how quickly or how far down his throat we'd try to shove it, Joe would gag, cough and maneuver his tongue just perfectly and spit out the little white and yellow capsule every single time. By the third or fourth try, the capsule would be wet and sticky and nearly disintegrated, but no matter how wet or slick or flat it would become, Joe's little tongue would find it, grab it and roll it back to the front or side of his mouth and then slowly shove it out of his mouth from between his little teeth. Just when we thought we were finally successful, we'd stand watching him for a couple of seconds, then "chkkkktowt" and there it would come, that mooshed up, wet and slimy capsule on the tip of Joe's tongue, and it would sit there stuck to the hair around his mouth. It was comical. It would take both of us to get the job even partially done. Tom would hold Joe so he couldn't squirm away, I'd do the shoving. After 5 or 6 tries, Joe would have ingested maybe half of the antibiotic powder inside the capsule simply because it would continue to get wet and disintegrate with each attempt. No amount of peanut butter or wet dog food could coax Joe to just swallow those damn pills and by the end of each session, Tom and I would be exhausted from sheer frustration and fear of hurting this tiny yet determined little dog.

After our bout Friday night, Tom decided to take Joe into our regular vet's office Saturday morning, regular office hours for them. He wanted to have Dr. Chris or one of the other vet's take a look at Joe's throat. We're thinking at this point that maybe his throat is infected or swollen or both. We are also thinking that a liquid antibiotic would be a hell of a lot easier.

Saturday night meds time...a half a dropper of liquid antibiotic on the back of Joe's tongue...a quick squeeze of the bulb...down the throat it goes...easy, peasy. Thank. God.

Over the past week, Joe has followed us from room to room, laid at our feet while we are standing at the sink washing dishes or sitting at the table having breakfast, lunch or dinner. While I am working in the office, he sleeps in the chair next to me. When we are watching tv, he sleeps in Tom's lap. He doesn't seem to be bothered by loud noises or new people. I vacuumed Sunday morning and it didn't seem to phase him at all. My in-laws came over yesterday for dinner and he greeted them with the same enthusiasm he greeted me the first time.

This is my mother-in-law...



She is in her mid-80's and now walks with a cane.

She and I didn't hit it off in the beginning (over 40 years ago). But as time has passed, we both have changed, we have overcome our difficulties and grown to trust and care deeply for each other. I have never, ever seen anyone as good with babies and kids as she is.

One thing that has not changed about my mother-in-law is her dislike for animals. This is a woman who has demanded that our cat be taken from the room because she is afraid it will rub up against her leg. This is a woman who always refused to go out into the yard to meet any one of our dogs, cats, sheep or any other animal. Even when our neighbor brought her horse over to take our grandkids for a ride, my mother-in-law wouldn't even go out on the porch to watch. This is a woman, when met face to face with one of our cats or dogs, would respond with a resounding, "SHOO! SHOO!"

Yes, this is that same woman...



with Joe in her lap! This woman who said, "SHOO!!" to all other animal invaders, asked for a towel for her lap, then proceeded to reach down and pick Joe up and place him in her lap. And she sat there for quite some time with Joe in her lap, stroking his coat as he slept quietly.

Many times yesterday afternoon, Tom and I exchanged that bewildered, wide-eyed-What-The-Hell-Is-This???-look.

Will wonders ever cease??