My good friend had to put her dog down this week.

This wasn't just any dog.  Her dogs are like my dogs' cousins.  We're like extended family.

I didn't know what to say.

There's nothing TO say, is there?

So, so sad.

And if you are one of those people who think that pet owners don't have the right to grieve, because it's "just an animal" then I only have two words....

FUCK  and  YOU!

Coming not long after me sobbing in front of the telly (TV) as I watched MacKenzie Phillips put her dog down on Celebrity Detox (VH1 Channel), this is another reminder of the sad fact every dog owner has to face - our furkids will not outlive us.

I try not to be a glass-half-empty person, but I see the reality I am going to have to face in the amazing speed with which Puppy Girl is growing (15 to 49 pounds in 6 months), in the fact that Puppy Dog doesn't jump up to dance with me as much as he used to.

None of us should go through life dreading the day we have to face the death of the ones we love but, with dogs, you know - you know - that you're going to have to deal with it.

And so I hung up the phone from my dear friend, Kathy, and went to hug my dogs.  My beautiful, funny, cheeky, silly, furry, silky, always-hungry, always-loving, dogs.

At first I didn't want to tell them what had happened.  But I felt I had to.  We were going to visit Kathy's house at some point, and they'd know.  So I said the words, and then it hit me.  

Puppy Girl wasn't sure what was going on but, as he always does, Puppy Dog knew I was upset, and tolerated at least three long hugs, which he wouldn't normally (dog don't hug like apes do).  Then he licked the tears off my cheek.

I should take a moment to pay tribute to Tara (she's the one on the left).

She was old, of course, and sick by the time I met her.  But that didn't stop her personality coming through.  

She was a regal dog, quietly in command of her pack.  

When she barked to ask to be let out of the house, it was part request, part command.  She was a stately old lady.

She was loving and enthusiastic.  Even when she was really sick, she came gullumphing across to me to say hello - her equivalent of a puppyish bounce.

They had to lift her legs to get her up each step, one at a time, towards the end.  She reminded me of Shirley MacLaine in Terms of Endearment, when, playing the ageing actress Aurora Greenway in hospital after a car crash, she ties a scarf around her head, slaps on some lipstick, wraps herself in a fur coat and is wheeled out to see the press, head held high.  

Tara retained her dignity, no matter how sick and sore she got. 

Darling Tara, I hope she's running and jumping and barking and chasing and playing in heaven.

To see more in the Doggy Mama series, click here. 

First thing in the morning, Puppy Girl is ON.  

She is rested, energized and ready to take on the Duracell Bunny and WIN.  Scratch that - ready to rip the Duracell bunny to furry shreds, exposing it's soft stuffing and hard battery case, and WIN!

First thing in the morning I am OFF.

I am groggy, grumpy and physically fighting the urge to go back to bed.  

And so we have a routine now.

I get up, I let the dogs outside, I feed them, I let them outside again.  I let Puppy Dog back into the bedroom so that he can go back to bed and surface at a much later hour - more suited to the teenage boy that he is.

Then I brush my teeth.

And that's when the game starts.

Puppy Girl brings me her morning retriever game ball.

It's a big hollow rubber thing.

I don't know who invented or designed this ball, but they are a GENIUS.  It's soft it doesn't hurt the furniture, it bounces a bit, so the dogs can chase it in different directions, it's light, so it's easy to kick and throw, and the holes mean the dogs can (a) wrap their teeth around it and play tug and (b) get it stuck in their mouths when they want to drop it, which can be highly amusing.

So I brush my teeth in the doorway of the kitchen and dining room, gunk in my eyes, electric toothbrush in my mouth, hair a la Medusa, bending it like Beckham at 6:15 in the morning.

We've had a few fun moments with this game.

There was the time I got more air in the kick than expected and the ball ended up on top of the bookshelves.

There was the time Puppy Girl got too into it, stood to close to me and the follow on curve of my kick ended with my foot in her open mouth.

And then there was the time the ball ricocheted off her crate and, trying to stop, she planted her feet and slid about three feet across the wooden floor, crumpling into the side of the couch and I guffawed, only to choke on the electric toothbrush.  Trust me, you don't want toothpaste triggering your gag reflex.  Once it get's past your mouth, that shit is STRONG.

And so, by 7am, I've managed to have something to eat, tidy the kitchen a little bit and take my vitamins.  All interspersed by kicking, kicking, kicking the ball.  Puppy Girl is then read to crash on the bed with her daddy, while I go and shower in peace.

It's our little routine, and we like it.

This week, Fluffy Bear was away on a business trip, so I had to take the pups to Doggy Day Care.

Day 1: 

We park outside Doggy Day Care and I slowly, slowly open the back of the SUV, sticking my hand in and saying "Wait.  Waaaaaait.... WAIT!"

Yeah, not so much.

Puppy Girl wriggled out of the car and jumped down, running into the road.

This is a five lane road, a major road, and it was full of morning rush hour traffic.

I have a mental picture in my mind of the moment she reached the second lane, her leash dragging behind her and my realization that she was going to die.  I heard someone scream her name, and it was me. 

A thought that Fluffy Bear is going to hate me if she dies flashed through my head.

And my next thought changed the situation.

"Don't chase her," my brain said, "take a tip from Victoria Stilwell and make her chase you."

And so I turned, ran to the door of the Doggy Day Care and, thank God, Puppy Girl followed me.

I left the SUV open, my purse in the front seat - I just didn't care - and got the two dogs inside.

It was only when I got back to the car that I started shaking, and burst into tears.

Day 2:

This time I was prepared.  I parked in parking lot on the side of Doggy Day Care, slightly away from the street.  

Why didn't I do this the first time?  Because it belongs to another business and we aren't supposed to use it.  But, I figured, fuck it.

When I opened the back of the SUV, I had chicken snacks in my hand.  I managed to keep both dogs in the car till I had their leashes.

I get dragged into Doggy Day Care - this time Puppy Girl knows where we are going and, like her older brother, she wants to get there as fast as possible.

I managed to control them relatively well, until the young lady who takes the dogs into the back came out.  Wanting to get to play with his friends NOW, Puppy Dog pulled on the leash, going around the back of the desk.  Everything was caught on the leashes, and went flying, including this poor young lady's coffee.

Two staff jumped at me, grabbed the leashes out of my hands and took the two dogs back to their different play areas (because Puppy Girl is young, she goes in with the puppies).

It was so embarrassing!

I offered to replace the coffee, but was told no, it's OK.

I left as soon as I could.

Day 3:

I managed to get the dogs in OK, but when I collected them, one of the staff decided he would make Puppy Girl sit before he handed the leash to me.  She knows how to sit - we've been to training class.  But all training goes out of the window inside the doors of Doggy Day Care.

He signaled at her, he said sit, he gently pushed her butt down.  She sat for a millisecond.  

He did it again.  She barely sat again.

And he wouldn't give up.  

On and on and on and on.

Eventually, she won.

I grabbed her leash, pulled Puppy Dog with me and we practically ran out of there.

Thank God we start our second training class this week...

Well, it had to happen sometime...

Getting the dogs to play sometimes takes some trickery.

They have toys lying all over the house, but they tend to follow me around and get under my feet.

So I've created the toy box.

Every day I pack up the toys that are out and then I get to make a big deal out of pulling something out of the box for them to play with.

To get them doubly excited, I throw the toy across the room and whoop-yell something to get them excited.

The whoop-yell is usually a made up word.

I've made up words for years.  It started when I went into the workplace and couldn't swear (curse) anymore, and really crystallized when we first moved to the US and the hairy eyeballs I got in supermarkets made it clear to me that saying "Why the FUCK are there so many breakfast cereals?!?!?" wasn't socially acceptable.

Saying "Fattyboozlybuckawallie" is better than "Fuckingbollocksbuggery."

This word invention has served me well when trying to get the dogs to chase a toy and leave us alone for five minutes.

Here are some of the words I whoop, soprano-cheerleader style:

• "CHOOP-E-LAAAAAH!"
• "OM-POMPIE-DOOBIE!"
• "OOKIE-SHOOOOOOOKIE!"
• "WAN-A-KAT-A-LAAAAAH!"
• "BARRA-MINKIE-POOOOOOOO!"
• "ORRRA-WARRA-WARRA-WARRRRAAAAAAH!" (rolling of the R's is de rigeur)
• "GOH-GED-EEEEEEEET!" (origins of this one are obvious)
• "FAL-ESKIE-BLOO-BLOOOOOOOO!"
• "HOOOOOOO-GAJJA-WAH-WAAAAAAAAH!"

Works every time.

Puppy Girl is asleep on the couch, Puppy Dog is napping in front of the TV.  These are the stolen moments when I can get stuff done.

I am in Fluffy Bear's office doing some filing.  The TV is on - Countdown, the political commentary show on MSNBC hosted by Keith Olbermann.  

I am peering at paperwork to figure out what the hell it is, and moving it, piece by piece, from a scrappy pile on a chair to the various hanging files we have.  

I start to notice something is off.  

I look.  No dogs nearby. 

I listen.  No dogs making noises.

I tune my hearing in to the TV, and realize that I haven't heard Mr Olbermann's dulcet tones in a while.  

And this has been going on too long for it to be just an ad break.

The sound cuts abruptly, mid-sentence, to a new person speaking, about something completely unrelated.

My brain kicks in, I run to the living room.

Sure enough, the remote is in Puppy Girl's mouth, and she is happily chewing her way through the cable channels!

And now I believe that couple that said their dog ordered Microsoft points online in the middle of the night.

See first 10 ways here.

1. You think they understand the words you're saying, but they don't
2. They get very excited by new toys
3. They crawl into the smallest places, then you can't get them out again
4. They are adorable when they sleep
5. Their high pitched cry is utterly heart-breaking
6. You can tell when they are overtired, and slightly manic
7. They come this close to shocking themselves to death with a socket or power cord at least once a day
8. They grow so fast it's scary
9. Their little tummies are so pink and soft, it's delightful
10. You know you'd fight - or even kill - to keep them safe

Puppies are like babies/toddlers because...

1. they put everything in their mouths
2. they don't understand daylight savings time and get hungry at what would have been dinner time
3. you buy expensive toys and they play with a stone. a piece of cardboard or an ice cube
4. they scream when they don't want to go to sleep and you put them in bed
5. you are constantly cleaning up poop and pee
6. everything you try to do takes double to three times as long as it used to
7. they wake you up in the middle of the night
8. when they get tired, they just flop down in the closest comfortable spot
9. they wriggle like a ferret in your arms when you are holding them and they want to be somewhere else
10. you're busy, then you suddenly realize there's silence and you just know that means something bad is going on and you find yourself sprinting outside to find out what's happening.

And, finally...

... hugging them to your chest is the most heart-melting feeling you've ever had

One minute there is a soft, sweet, slumbering puppy next to you on the couch...

...

...and, the next minute, there is a soft cough, a long burp and she very delicately vomits up something the size of half of her left foreleg.

Then she starts to lick it.

Apart from me trying to get her head away so I could clean it up, it was all very quiet and dignified... and a little surreal.

We're starting to develop a routine:

• 05:00: Puppy Girl cries to be let out of her crate to pee, I take her outside
• 05:10: We come back in, I put her on the bed to sleep with me.  Yes, I know this is wrong, but I can't stand 15 minutes of her screaming at 5 in the morning
• 07:30 - 08:30: Puppy Girl is awake, and squiggling, making little whining noises  
  • I take her outside, closing the puppy gate between the dining room and the passage to the bedroom, because Puppy Dog does not like her first thing in the morning
  • I go back inside, and take her crate out to the dining room.  During this procedure, I have to try to keep her away from Puppy Dog, who growls a deep bass when she comes anywhere near him
  • I put her in her crate.  She screams
  • I let Puppy Dog out, to pee in peace
  • I get Puppy Dog his breakfast, and he eats in the kitchen
  • I get Puppy Girl her breakfast, and she eats in the crate in the dining room
  • I let Puppy Dog outside, closing the back door so he can poop in peace
  • I let Puppy Dog back inside and back into the bedroom, closing the puppy gate
  • I let Puppy Girl outside to try to concentrate, with her ADD brain, on pooping
• 08:30 - 9:00: Puppy Girl comes back inside and starts to play in the living and dining room.  When I see Puppy Dog at the puppy gate, wagging his tail, he is allowed in to play with her.

I totally get where Puppy Dog is coming from.

It's the same as those people who only talk in a low grumble till they've had their morning coffee, and the last thing they want is a little baby pulling their hair, trying to get them to play.

Our little routine is still developing, but we're getting there.

The aim is to minimize the bigger dog's irritation at the baby because, if she really pisses him off, he'll nip or bite her.  Or so the books say.

Yesterday, while they were playing, he put one paw gently across her body and pinned her.  It was pretty relaxed, and she submitted.  I watch them all the time and he is learning to be gentle, while still making his dominance clear.

He is also clearly teaching her things.  She pooped in the large area of ivy we have on a bank in the yard yesterday - his preferred poopy place.

He comes up to her with toys, initiating play.  Each day, they seem to enjoy each other more.

Except for yesterday, when I totally screwed up.  

One of the training techniques taught at our puppy class is to get the dogs excited and running around, then ask them both to sit, and give them a treat.  This is so that they learn, even if they are in the midst of rambunctious play, to listen to you, stop and sit nicely.

They do it very well - as long as they see/smell that I have treats in my hands.

Yesterday, I gave Puppy Girl her treat before Puppy Dog.  I had the small piece of treat, which I wanted to giver her, at the front of my fingers and, in that instant, I just didn't think.

Big mistake.

He spent the following 3 hours chasing and humping her.  

He can't exactly mount her - she's so tiny compared to him that all he has to do is stand over her.  She fits right under his torso.   His penis wasn't actually touching her as he humped, and he didn't have lipstick - it was all about dominance.

But there were a few slightly disturbing times when he walked over her and she was facing the other direction.  He'd hump and she'd lick his penis.  

I paid a lot of attention to him and, after he was fed first at dinner time, like he always is, he calmed down.

Thank God.

I don't want to watch a child-molesting, incestuous 69.

I think I've been unfair.

I keep complaining about sleepless nights, unscheduled vet visits and twisted ankles.  

Of course, there's much more than that to having a puppy.

There's: 

• The silky, soft, floppy ears, like a sip of chocolaty goodness
• The warm, pink, doughy tummy
• The unbearable cuteness of her looking into your eyes and tilting her head sideways when she doesn't understand you 
• The wonderful feeling when she follows a command correctly and shows that her training is working
• The adorable sound of her high growls, compared to her brother's deep, low grows, when they play tug
• The lolloping, gallumphing way she runs, making boof-boof sounds on the wooden floor
• Her triumphant trot, tail held high, when she's managed to sneak one of my shoes from next to the back door and is heading to the living room to chew it
• The sharpness of her piranha teeth when she nibbles my finger 
• Her quiet, rhythmic snoring
• The way she stretches, tiny paws pushed out, head arched
• Her little paw going crazy when I scratch behind her ear. 

It's really difficult to communicate how utterly adorable she is.  So I'll just show you.

I would never presume that having a puppy is the same as dealing with a human child.  I didn't carry an alien in my belly for 9 months.  I didn't go through the stress, the sickness, the hell of IVF.  I didn't experience the bureaucracy, the waiting, the expense of adoption.

But - fuck me! - it's still hard.

And I broke this morning.

I found myself on my bed, Puppy Girl safely locked in the living room behind the puppy gate, calling Puppy Dog to me and hugging him, crying.

She had pooped on his cushion.  Again.  

I know that doesn't seem like a big deal.  Some dog stain liquid and some Bounty and Bob's your uncle, Fanny's your aunt.  All cleaned up.  But that wasn't it.

Flashback:  Friday

I have an interview with the company I really, really, really, really, really want to work for.  It's my second round of interviews with them.  

The first was for one kind of job (I have three core skills) and I got through to face to face interview, but there was obviously a candidate who was a better fit.  One shouldn't take this stuff personally.  Also, someone passed my resume on internally for another role, so clearly they think I'd be an asset.  Excellent.

So I've had a phone interview for Job No. 2, and it went well.  Time for the face to face, with the Hiring Manager and her Boss Man.  It's at 2pm.

I'm supposed to be prepping in the morning but, God, I'm tired.  I read over old notes, I look up the people on LinkedIn and Facebook.  Guess what, Boss Man has all his info locked down.  No clues.  

At about 10am, I talk to a present employee of the company - a friend of a friend - and he tells me what it's like to work there.  This is about the 7th phone call I've had with people who work in all sorts of jobs at the firm.  I do my research.

At about 10:30, a little thought pops into my head: "You're going to have to go to the vet before the interview."

Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself.  Paranoia.  Just focus on preparing.

And then, around 11:30, Puppy Girl runs in from outside, sits on her cushion and starts to cry.  I have no idea why.  I look her over and it seems like she squeals when I touch her left back paw.  She keeps whimpering - on and on and on.

I call the vet.  I tell them what is going on.  I tell them about the interview.  They tell me to come in, leave her with them and pick her up afterwards.

I have no time to shower.  Can you believe that?  I have no time to shower.  

I throw makeup at my face, I drown my head in hairspray, I overdo the deodorant.  

We head to the vet.  He's a wonderful man and sees her almost right away.  He looks, he prods, he shines lights.  He doesn't find anything.

Maybe she ate something in the yard, he tells me.  Go back and make sure you don't have anything toxic out there.  

Yeah, sure, me who doesn't recognize any plant that isn't a rose.

So she stays with them, I go to the interview.  My head is not in the game.

The Boss Man's arms are crossed and he fires questions at me:

"What are the three most important characteristics to be successful in this role?"

"What three things do you bring that other people don't?"

"Name the phases of project management."

"Name three key metrics we should be measuring."

I blather.  All my answers are too long.  I tell stories - he wants acronyms.

He tells me to ask him questions.  I decide to play his game.

"What do you want the person in this role to achieve in the first 60-90 days?"

"What three things are your key challenges?"

"What is the ultimate goal of this team?"

His arms uncross.  He even smiles.  But then I ask him if there are any other questions he has for me, if there are any gaps I need to fill in.

"When I asked you about the project management phases," he says, " I expected you to say the five phases but you talked around it.  You got there in the end, but you should have been able to name them."

Oh, fuck.

I tell him that my brain is half at the vet, and that I am very sorry.

I feel like I've lost him.

The second interview, with the Hiring Manager, goes very well.  We get on even better in person than we did on the phone.  But her Boss Man can overrule her, so I worry.

I go back to the vet to get Puppy Girl, relieved that the prognosis - and the invoice - is a lot better than I expected.

Never before have I experienced the need to juggle home and work like this.  Puppy Dog needs to be walked every day, but we got him at 1 year old, and he just never needed as much time and attention as a puppy.  And he didn't wake us up at night.

Flashback:  Sunday

My friend Jean is visiting.  We haven't seen each other in weeks.  We talk, we have wine (not that much - you'll see why I'm saying this real soon), I make cheese and prosciutto grilled sandwiches.  

Puppy Girl has to go potty.  Again.  I'm in the kitchen, wearing socks, holding her in my arms so she won't pee on the floor, trying to get my feet into my slip-on Birkenstocks.  

She wriggles, I lose my balance, I fall onto my ass, twisting my ankle.  

Oh, the indignity!  And the pain.

I manage to get up, the evening progresses.  Apart from trying to kill me, Puppy Girl has been sleeping almost all day.  

Hah!  I should have known.

She wakes me to potty at midnight.  

She wakes me at 2am but then refuses to come out of her crate.  She doesn't need to potty, she was just bitching because she wanted to be up on the bed.

She wakes me for potty at 4am.  

She wakes me for potty just after 6am.

This is a major regression.  She'd been sleeping through from midnight to 6am.

I give in, and put her on the bed.  We make it through to 8:45 before she wakes me again.

So now I'm tired, and I have another interview - a phone one, thank God - with a firm I know very little about at 1pm.  

And my brain is fried.  Dipped in batter, sprinkled with seasoning and deep fried.

 And then she pooped on Puppy Dog's cushion.

A big, smelly, round in a circle, turd.

Don't be fooled by that sweet little picture.  That little pink tummy can make some revolting gases and solids.

So know you know the perilous journey that has led to this ship running aground on Breaking Point.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

Many year's ago - I must've been 12 or so years old - I went to stay with my sister while her husband was away on a business trip.  She'd just had her first baby.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night and seeing her in the living room, watching her wide-awake son playing with toys on the carpet, crying her eyes out.

I was confused by what I saw, and slunk back to bed.

When I was a kid, if there was something I didn't understand, it stayed stored in my memory in the "Don't get it - Gather more data" file.

Sometimes I'd ask someone a question to get the answer, sometimes I'd think it through, and sometimes I just kept my mouth shut, instinctively knowing that I couldn't ask an adult about it, and that, someday, I'd get it.

Case in point:  I used to read a lot of Judy Blume.  I remember one scene where the female protagonist was kissing the boy of her dreams and she got scared, telling the reader that she felt something hard and knew it wasn't his keys.  It took at least 3 years till I understood that one.  

Hey - don't mock me!

I read WAY above my age range.

Anyway, I didn't get why my sister was sitting there, like a crumpled tissue, slumped in the lounge chair, sniffing.

Over the years, I've seen movies about being a mother, talked to friends, read books.  But I'll never understand the pain and emotion involved in giving birth to a child, never feel what it is like to breast-feed a baby, never go through the wrench of empty nest syndrome.

But there is one thing I DO get now.

I get that you can be so tired that you open the fridge instead of the trash can to throw away snotty tissues, that you are unreasonably tetchy with your husband and that you can actually get to the point where you wonder what the hell you got yourself into, doubt you can cope, and just want to sit down, put your head in your hands as if you are the overacting, big-haired, pancake-makeup-faced lead in a daytime soap opera, and cry, cry, cry.

I didn't actually do it.  But I thought about doing it.  My nose got tickly, my lower lip pouted, and tears almost came.

Still, it's only my third sleepless night with the puppy, so you never know.

That little bundle of warm, milky, chocolaty goodness may break me yet.

Oh boy.  

Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

Well, of course we took her into our family.  Who could resist?

As I am job hunting, I am on night duty.

And here's how the first night went:

• 1:15 am - she wakes up, crying.  I take her out for a pee, she plays
• 2:00 am - she asks to get up onto the couch with me, and settles down
• 2:22 am - I gather her up in the blanket she's lying on, and put her into her crate
• Ah, sleep
• 4:22 am - she wakes up, crying.  I take her out for a pee, she plays.  She poops on the carpet.  Ah, who knew she needed to do No. 1 and No. 2?
• 4:33 - she asks to be up on the couch with me, and settles down
• 4:44 - I put her in her crate
• 4:46 - she cries.  I lie down with her, my head half in the crate, to calm her.  She licks and nibbles my head, searching for a nipple in my hair.  It's kinda funny and disconcerting, all at once.  She goes to sleep
• Ah, sleep
• 6:30 - she wakes up, crying.  She pees.  She plays.  She eats.
• 7:42 - she asks to get up on the couch and settles down
• 8:00 - I put her in her crate
• Ah, sleep
• 8:30 - she wakes up, crying.  She pees, she poops, she plays.
• 9:30 - she asks to get up on the couch with me
• Fluffy Bear wakes up.  My shift is over.  Oh, thank God.

Scooping dog poop is something you get used to. I guess it's like parents of human babies who just don't care when their little darling vomit all over them.

But after a while you start to become a doggy poop officionado.

We have a 8 C rating scale and, depending on how many treats he gets, Puppy Dog usually scores pretty low.

1. Collectability – on a good surface, like NOT the pavement


2. Convenience – not at 3.30 am


3. Composition – a neat little pile, easy to get into the bag in one handful


4. Creep-free - all in one place, no shifting forward on hind haunches while doing the deed


5. Consistency – not oatmeal, not pellets


6. Consideration – less five mins after going outside if it is raining


7. Color – black or red, we are told, are BAD


8. Closure – Finish it – don’t keep squatting again and again

Puppy Dog is fixed, but he can still get his freak on.  It's a domination thing, like his constantly humping Theo, his friend, including in the middle of dinner parties.

The other night I had my dear friend Dolly over for dinner.  

There was lasagne, expertly cooked by Fluffy Bear, there was wine, inexpertly chosen by me.  

And there was Puppy Dog.

Puppy Dog, who decided he liked Dolly's knee high lace-up boots.

A lot.

First there was the sniffing.

I didn't pay much attention to this.  So he was sniffing her shoes - so what?  They probably smelled of other dogs and cats and places unknown.  No big deal.

Dinner was eaten, wine was drunk, conversation flowed.

Then, the licking.  He was licking her boots.  

OK, a bit gross, and she probably didn't want dog spit on her leather, but the licking was minor, she didn't seem to notice it so, instead of interrupting our chat and yelling at my furkid - the kidless hate how us parents punctuate our lives with constant screeching - I let it be.

Another bottle was opened, an ice bucket brought out for convenient top ups, conversation continued to flow.

And then I saw it.  

He approached Dolly,  he looked up at her to check she was distracted, he made some licking movements to show he was friendly, he tottered a little as he tried to silently, inconspicuously position himself over the boot which was tantalizingly waving in front of him (Dolly had crossed her legs, so one boot was off the floor).  

I had one eye on him, and one eye on Dolly, still trying to pay attention to what she was saying.  Dolly is always erudite and amusing, so it's worth staying tuned in.

Then I saw it.

The back legs pushed forward, just a little.  Hump-ready.

I clapped my hands, loud.  Dolly, mid-sentence, wasn't sure if I was about to laugh uproariously, or if I was showing audience appreciation.  Till she saw my eyes - I was glaring at Puppy Dog, who retreated to his cushion.

Humpterupption.

But, of course, he's an intelligent, tenacious little bugger.

He crawled forward on his cushion, inch by inch, then, making sure I was occupied, slowly stood and sidled over to The Boot.  I'd catch him just as he was trying to assume the position and yelled.

"NO!"

 Poor Dolly was somewhat bemused at the seemingly random interruptions.

 What does one say to a well heeled guest? My dog want's to hump your lovely boot?

 No.

So I muttered something about him having a foot fetish - Ha! Ha! So funny! - and spent the rest of the evening intermittently glaring at him so he didn't go near her.

Much catching up and drinking later, it was time to call the cab.  This just goes to show the singlemindedness of my dog.  As she was leaving, he put his paw around her boot and thrust his pelvis foward.

One last try before his beloved boot left him forever...

We have a little bush outside our front door, next to the steps up to the front porch.

The other night I was sitting outside getting some air (OK, OK, having a cigarette), and Puppy Dog was with me.

He generally sniffs around the front porch a bit, then sits and sniffs the neighborhood air, listening to all the sounds.  That evening, however, he kept sniffing the bush.  Then he walked down the steps to the porch, around to the other side of the bush, and kept sniffing.

Then I saw it.

There was a small bird sitting on a branch at the top of the bush, completely still.  The minute I saw it, I sent Puppy Dog inside the house. 

I looked at the bird - it wasn't moving.  I know I'm an imbecile, but I didn't realize it was roosting.  I thought it was dead.  The annoyance, ickiness and general blergh of having to pluck a dead bird off the bush, and get rid of it somehow, ran through my mind.

I gently touched the bush.

The bird's head moved - turned so it could see me better - and it blinked.  Once.

OK, not dead.

I went inside and left the bird alone.

The next morning, I went out to see if the bird was OK.

Where it had been roosting, it had left a little message for us.  It clearly was not impressed with having a human and a dog disturb it's sleep. 

It had left us a massive pooh.  White and black, it was about an inch and a half in diameter.  A round, smelly, gooey message of dissatisfaction at room service.

My husband, Fluffy Bear, is the Alpha Dog, which makes me the Beta Bitch.

He is away at the moment and, ever since he left, Puppy Dog has been misbehaving because, of course, I'm just the Beta - no need to pay her any respect.

Nothing major, just a low-grade evil, like:

• Constantly pulling on the leash - hard


• Not heeling when told


• Not coming when called


• Jumping out of the back of the SUV before being given permission to do so


• Having to be asked three times to sit before he listens, so I can put his food bowl down and give him permission to eat


• etc., etc., etc.

Today, we came back from a walk at a local park.  He'd been pulling my arm off, ignoring commands and just generally being a little shit.

We pulled up in front of the house, and I parked the car.  I gathered my stuff, got out and went round to the back.  I opened up the boot (trunk) door of the SUV and, again, without pausing till he was told it was OK to get out, he bounded off.  He then didn't come back to me when I called and, instead of going straight up to the house when told "Home!" he trotted about, sniffing trees and the sidewalk.

I'd had enough.

"Your father,"I yelled, "is coming home tomorrow night and then we'll see about your misbehaviour!  Just you wait till Daddy comes home!"

It was one of those moments where, even as you hear yourself say the words, another part of your brain is quietly, rationally explaining to you that you are being totally insane and that - worse still - you're doing it out in public.

But I couldn't stop myself.  In that millisecond before I said it, it made perfect sense to me.

When I say that he is my furkid - my substitute child - I guess it's not so much a joke, but a deep-seated reality.

And he knows something is going on because I've been ignoring him for the last four hours that we have been home and he has been very, very quiet, laying on his cushion and not a peep out of him.

My little boy has pushed Mama too damn far, and he bloody well knows it.

Well.

That wasn't what I'd call a nice walk.

I took Puppy Dog out about 40 minutes ago.  We headed off, with him on his extendable leash, sniffing things here and there.

He came and stood by my side at street junctions, and heeled as we crossed the road.

It was all good.

Then he decided to poop on a hedge.  It was about 1.5 feet tall, a little decorative hedge, about a foot across, around a tree.  Of course, the minute I tried to scoop the poop, it fell down into the hedge and, although my hand was protected by the bag, I got poop smears up my arm.

Delightful.

I decided to go up to the open park, which he loves.  I don't usually take him there, and you'll soon find out why.

Squirrel 1 - he listened to me when I said "Leave it!" and stood still.

But Squirrel 2 was obviously too much.  He sprinted off, ripping the leash out of my hand.  The kazing of the leash burnt my finger, my arm was wrenched out of its socket, and I broke a well-manicured-in-time-for-tomorrow's-job-interview nail.

Fabulous.

Oh, and let's not forget the couple sitting on a nearby bench who thought my scream and disobedient dog were hilarious.

So pleased, dear Sir and Madam, that I could be a source of amusement for you today.

I didn't run after him.  I didn't have to. 

He was stuck in place at the bottom of a large tree he couldn't climb, staring up at a squirrel he couldn't catch, quivering.

I got hold of him, held his snout, said "NO!" again and again, and put him on heel.

Walking with Puppy Dog on heel, when he doesn't want to do it, is difficult.  Eventually I had the leash locked on just the right length to keep him next to me, and I was holding it behind my back, with both hands, to keep hold of him, walking on my left.  When he pulled too much, I stopped and turned my left hip away from him, so he was yanked back into the right position next to me.

But he wasn't interested.  He was pulling, and choking himself.

And so, we waddled down the street:

Block no. 1: Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank. Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank.

Block no. 2: Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank. Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank.

We must've looked like two nutters dancing to an even nuttier soundtrack.

Then we passed a house with a big yard and a nice fence.  The dogs inside always bark, but I could see one of them and it seemed relaxed, lying down on the front lawn.  I was sure it could see Puppy Dog was on a short leash, and that he wasn't even looking at the dog, or stepping towards its fence.  So I relaxed.

Big mistake.

Just as we reach the end of the yard, the dog lurched forward, barking and growling.  Puppy Dog pulled towards him. 

Oh, joy!

Still holding the leash behind my back, I was almost pulled off-balance trying to hang on, and had visions of kissing the sidewalk.

But, somehow, I held on till the dogs took a breath, and I dragged Puppy Dog down the sidewalk away from the insane guard dog.

Block no. 3: Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank. Pull. Cough! Cough! Pull. Yank.

Eventually, in the middle of the fourth block, he stopped pulling.  Thank God.

So, on block 5, I let him have the run of the full leash - about 12 feet.

And on we went.

Then, suddenly, he squatted for what I call an "Auxiliary Poop." This is when he has dropped a big volume already but, for some reason, has to add an appendix to his oeuvre.  No problem, I'll just get my reserve bag---

No bag.

It must've fallen out of my pocket.

Oh, lovely!

So there I am, in a nice neighborhood, committing the ultimate dog owner crime.  I walk away from my dog's poop on the grass in front of someone's house.

Screw this, time to turn towards home.

And so we did.

There is nothing worse, to a parent, than hearing their child in pain.

I have been around babies and kids since I was 11.  My siblings are much older than me, so I have been Auntie to many a young thing.  In fact, a lot of them aren't that young anymore.

I've played games, run birthday parties, changed nappies - you name it (deciding to be childless was an informed decision).

I know that babies have different kinds of cries.  There's the hunger cry, the dirty nappy cry, the I'm-bored-I-don't-want-to-go-to-sleep cry.  They all sound different.

And then there's the I'm-in-real-pain cry.

This is why you'll be at a party with parents of young children and notice different scenarios. 

In the first, the child falls down, but isn't really injured.  The parent may wait for the child to toddle over to them and placate them with a high voiced "Did you go boom-si-daisy?  Aw.  Daddy kiss it better."

And then there's the second scenario, where you'll be chatting away, a cry rings out and suddenly, the person you were talking to is just, well, gone.  Parents responding to real cries can rival Olympic sprinters.  That cry is horrible, ear splitting and heart rending.

It's the same being a dog owner.

Nobody wants to hear their little poochie yelp.

And I've had two of those today.

We were walking in a local park, and Puppy Dog was off-leash.  Why was he off-leash? I hear you ask.  Well, because a lot of people walk their dogs off-leash in this park, even though it's illegal.  So I do, too.

We went into the park on-leash, and Puppy Dog smelt a dog around the corner.  I didn't see it.  First I knew was when the leash was tugged and my arm nearly came off.  I was dragged downhill and, thank God for the flash back to High School hurdles or I may never have made it over that log.

The dogs sniffed each other - the other dog was off-leash, and Puppy Dog moseyed on.  So I took him off-leash, for my own safety.  The trail is narrow and the sides are steep.

When we got to the part of the trail that crosses a road, I put him on leash again, and we went on our merry way.  Then along comes another dog, off-leash, and they become instant friends.  There follows much running and jumping and both of them get completely tied up in the leash.  So I took it off again.

We continued, and rounded another corner.

In front of us was a couple with a huge - massive - dog. 

The warning signs were there.  The horse-dog was on a tight leash, with one parent either side of it, both of them very close.

"Is he ok with other dogs?" I asked.

"No."

So I immediately told Puppy Dog to Come.

He ignored me, trotted up to the horse-dog and said hello.  Horse-dog lunged at him, Puppy Dog's Mohawk went up and it was on.  The poor guy was desperately hanging onto his dog and I was calling Puppy Dog frantically.

And then, the yelp.

Puppy Dog came running back to me and the couple quickly carried on past us.  I apologized to them, they did not apologize to me.  OK, so technically I am in the wrong with my dog off-leash, but a simple "Sorry" would've been nice.

We went home and everything seemed fine.

In case you are wondering, I put him back on-leash.

Flash forward to 8:30 pm when I get back from a networking event (yes, I'm still looking for a job...).  Puppy Dog greets me at the front door with his usual ebullience, and follows me through the house, where I open the back door so he can go out to pee.  I sit down and wait for him to come and greet me for real, and I rub his head.

Second yelp.

What a horrible sound.  It makes me shudder.

So I calm him, prod and poke and find blood in his ear. 

The annoying fact about furry things is that it can be very hard to find where the injury is.  I ran my fingers through his fur, cleaned out his ear, but I couldn't find the actual bite.

I put some ointment on where I think it was, and he licked me in gratitude.

Now he's playing the sick dog, lying on his cushion and not moving.

And I'm fretting.

I never ever want to hear that sound again.

But, considering he's such an active, crazy, energetic lump of brown fur, I probably will...