We found another lost dog last weekend.

We were driving along and he ran across the road right in front of us.

Having seen a dog run over and killed a few months ago, Fluffy Bear is very sensitive to this stuff, and immediately pulled over.  

I called the dog and it came to me, very friendly.  It had a collar, but no tags.

We put it in the car, in the back seat because our two crazy mutts were in the back of the SUV, and headed up to the nearest vet.

I've been to this vet before and the receptionist totally put me off registering there.  We still go to our old vet close to where we used to live.  He's worth the drive.

The receptionist was just as rude and incompetent as when I'd first met her.  She was clearly not interested in helping us, and kept scanning only one spot on the dog's back.  Fluffy Bear tried to explain to her that our dogs have their chip in their shoulder, and asker her to please move the scanner around, but she just kept waving it at a spot on the top of the dog's neck, saying that there was no chip.

She was utterly useless.

We put the dog back in the car and decided to head down to the Animal Shelter.

The dog was very sweet, very well behaved and sat down quietly next to me.  This was clearly someone's loving pet.

At the Animal Shelter we met a very nice English Vet Tech who helped us out.  She took out her scanner, waved it and it went BEEP in less than 5 seconds.  I swear to God!  She found the chip right away.

She also realized that the number, being 15 digits instead of 10, meant that this was a foreign chip.  Apparently America uses a different standard to the rest of the world for dog chips.  No comment.

Anyway, she said she'd trace it and we left the dog in her capable hands.

Two days later, we were driving past the Animal Shelter, so we stopped in to see what had happened to the dog.  

And here's the crazy thing.

The couple had come into the shelter less than an hour after we dropped off their dog, looking for it.  They had just moved to town, and they are English!

So everyone involved in this story of the lost dog has a British accent!

No wonder the dog came to me when called!  He was probably thinking:  "Oh yes, you sound right.  Unlike all the other strange hairless apes I've been around for the last two days!"

Imagine how freaked this poor dog was.  He had just been on an 8 hour flight, come to a very strange place and then got completely lost.  

We were so happy to hear this story had a happy ending.

Well, last night was exciting.

Let me put it this way - within ten minutes of arriving home, in spite of a bottle of red wine and two glasses of Pimms and Lemonade, Fluffy Bear was 100% sober.

Why?

Because Puppy Dog was missing.

We had been to dinner at a friend's house and, as we walked up the steps to our front door, I was worried right away.

Three things:

• First, Puppy Dog wasn't standing behind the glass, tail wagging, greeting us.  He knows the sound of our car and he waits at the front door, guarding his den, whenever we go out.  
• Second, the cardboard piece that had been blocking the glass panel of our front door (which the dogs broke a few weeks ago) was sticking out.  It had been shoved out from the inside.
• Third, there was a strange bowl on the steps, with water in it.  

We went into the house and Puppy Girl ran out to meet us.

But no Puppy Dog.

Not in the bedrooms, not in the kitchen, not in the basement, not in the front yard, not in the back yard.

We were freaking out.

We walked around, calling him.

Then I thought I heard him bark, and the jingle of the tags that hang off his collar.

We ran back out the front and there was our next door neighbor, bringing him home.

He had found Puppy Dog on our front porch when he came home - about half an hour after we left - and he had slowly enticed our dog into his house.  Puppy Dog is a rescue, and he can get very anxious.  Our neighbor fed him and hung out with him, but he told us Puppy Dog's back legs were shaking the whole evening.

He was in the middle of telling us all of this when I lunged at him and hugged him.  I was so happy and relieved, I couldn't help myself.  The poor man.  He was very nice about it, but I think I almost knocked him over.

Puppy Dog was beside himself with joy to be back with us.  He jumped all over us - which he doesn't normally do - and licked us for about fifteen minutes after we got home.

We gathered around him and spent some time with our furkids, in our pack, appreciating our family.

Today we took our neighbor flowers, wine and a card.  I feel like it's not enough.

Thank God Puppy Girl didn't follow her brother out, because she wouldn't have hung out on the porch like he did.  She would've been off round the neighborhood, clomping along on her bandaged foot.  A car driving too fast, someone who felt like stealing a pretty dog, falling down the steep drops in the park near our house... there are a multitude of bad things that could've happened to her.

Fluffy Bear and I had a long debate about how Puppy Dog had got out.  I was convinced that it was through the missing panel in the front door, but he thought the open windows in the dining room were to blame.

Until this morning.

We left for our golf lesson and, as we got in the car, Fluffy Bear looked up to see BOTH dogs running towards us.  The windows weren't open wide enough for them to get out, so my theory about the missing panel in the front door was proven right.

As we led them back to the house, we engaged in a loving exchange:

Me:  "Say it!  SAY IT!"

Fluffy Bear:  "You were right."

Me:  "I'm sorry, what was that?"

Fluffy Bear:  "You heard."

Me:  "No, I really didn't.  What was it you said?"

Fluffy Bear:  "You were RIGHT, OK?  YOU.  WERE.  RIGHT."

Me:  "Thank you.  Now fix the damn door."

But it still wasn't over. 

As soon as we got to the golf range, I ran up to our pro and told him to greet my husband with a question.  As Fluffy Bear walked up to him, he went with my joke:

"Hi," he said.  "Who let the dogs out?"

Fluffy Bear laughed.  He's taken my shit for over ten years... I've trained him well.

But I kept the best for last.

Half an hour later, as he was lining up his putt, I let him have it, channeling the song by the Baha Men.

"Who let the dogs out?  Who?  Who-Who?  Who-WHO?"  

To read more in the Being a Doggy Mama series, click here.

Fluffy Bear is away at a work thingy, so I have to take the furkids to Doggie Day Care every day.

Today I went to pick up the dogs and there was another furkid Mommy in front of me picking up her gorgeous black and golden retrievers.  She was chatting with the guy who owns the Doggie Day Care and I overheard her asking him if he was allright.

Then I saw him how her his hand, with two big band aids on his index finger and they discussed how wounds should be cleaned.

He disappeared into the back to get her dogs and I asked her what was going on.

"A dog bit him today," she said.

"Oh my God!" I shrieked.  "I hope it wasn't one of mine."

"He called me today and I told me about it, but I freaked out because he was calling me," she continued.  "When he said the word 'Bite' I thought he was saying that one of my dogs got bitten, and I was frantic because, I thought to myself, if he is calling me then it must be bad.  Not like the usual scrapes they get into at day care."

"So I was so worried," she said, holding her hand up to her heart, " but then he said it was him and I was so relieved that I said 'Oh, thank God, it was you who got bit!'  I felt so bad afterwards!"

"I totally get it!" I said, laughing with her.  "If it were me, I'd be relieved too!"

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.

Sigh.

If Puppy Dog is a Velociraptor, Puppy Girl is Houdini.

When we went for weekend to the Best Ripoff Hotel in the West, she stayed with our good friends, Will and Kathy - Theo, Tara and Tasha's parents.  

Tasha is Puppy Girl's cousin, and only fractionally older than her, so Will and Kathy are also living in the midst of puppy madness and kindly agreed to help us out (we arranged to go to Ripoff Hotel long before I got Puppy-itis and managed to melt Fluffy Bear's heart).

While Puppy Girl was staying with Will and Kathy, she got out of her crate not once, but twice.  Kathy came into the kitchen to find Puppy Girl in front of Tasha's crate, mocking her.

"I got out!  HA HA!  You're still stuck in your crate!  HA HA!  I can run around and play!  HA HA!"

Needless to say, Tasha was pissed.

Much barking going on.

So at least I was pre-warned.

I've been careful to make sure the crate is really closed when she's in there, I check on her every five to ten minutes when she and Puppy Dog are playing (outside or inside).

But I'm human, and I have to go to the bathroom.

So I don't know when exactly the dogs came inside.  I don't know how the front door got opened.  I also don't know how Puppy Girl managed to break the screen on the screen door.

What I do know is that, when I came out of the bathroom, Puppy Dog was quivering, looking up at me, very concerned.  I followed him through the dining room and living room and there she was, at the front door, outside the screen, paws on the lower part of the screen door (which is metal and about 10 inches high), head sticking through the broken square of screen, completely confused as to how she could get back into the house.

I wish I could download that mental picture for you, and the feeling of panic that followed hot on its heels.

But I knew I couldn't yell or make any sudden movements, or she might turn around, run outside, down the steep bank in front of our house (we have no fencing around the front yard), out onto the sidewalk, the road, and God knows where after that.

So I made placating noises and reached through the screen to pull her back in, sighing with relief.

I know Fluffy Bear will laugh when I tell him.

It may not have been funny to live, but at least it will be one of those stories that's funny to tell.

Oy vey... 

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

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...