Spoiled. Rotten.

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Yes. I spoil our girls.  Rotten.

A trip to the pet store buys them a treat of smoked pig’s ears or a cow’s hoof.  Just b’cuz. Cruising through the aisles,  I’ll nimbly toss into my cart peanut butter nibbles and pull toys. Sometimes its a doggy cookie frosted with cute little sayings. Other times it might be a jerky treat or a rawhide.

Of course, if the packaging has a Berner on it – it’s a given.  I’m buying it.  And then there’s Costco…..

“Oh! Look honey!” I yell over the clamor of Costco shoppers.  I’m pointing to a dog treat package that has a picture of a Bernese Mountain Dog sitting proudly on the bottom corner.  Malcolm is five carts away grabbing his Mexican Coke.

“We should get these for Dolce and Amore,” I state as I’m tossing two packs onto the Costco flatbed.

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“Geezus!  They’re $27 bucks each! Put ’em back!”  Malcolm has sticker shock. He shoves the packages back in their bin and tries to push the cart on down the aisle.

“But the girls will love’em and it has a Berner on it!”  Like that justifies the cost and the purchase.

“We are not spending $50 some odd dollars just because it has a Berner on the packaging – you don’t even know what it is!”  thinking that will close the conversation down and we can get the hell out of Costco.

“Yes, I do, they’re Bull Sticks or if you want the technical name, PENIS.  PENIS. PENIS.” I repeated.  Well that certainly garnered some stares from strangers. Malcolm grabs the package to read the labeling. That starts another tirade.

“Geezus!  These things cost over $2 a piece!  There’s only twelve in the pack.”

“So?”

And then he did the calculations.

“Holy Mother of Gawd!  It’s over twenty dollars a pound.  We don’t even buy filet steak for ourselves for that much and you’re gonna buy it for our dogs?”

“And your point being?”  I dug my heels in deep.  My stubborn Swedish heritage was kick’n in.  His frugal Scottish blood was simmering but not boiling. I had this one in the bag.

“Fine! I’ll only get one package.” I relented.  “We can always buy more later,” I added under my breath as I put the single package of Bull Sticks on top of the bag of lemons. Oops.  He heard that.  Malcolm shot me that look.  You know, that look husbands give wives that wives almost always ignore.  I gave him one back.  You know, the one wives gives to husbands when they are being a male.  A male that has no understanding of a female.

We bought the Bull Sticks.

Many spent dollars later, we begin the trek back up the hill to Santa Fe.  “Now don’t be giving them to the girls all at once.  Dole’em out slowly so they’ll last,” Malcolm lectured me on the drive home. “I know, I know, I’ll space them out to last  It will be for special ocassions.” I gave him the answer he wanted.  I knew the girls would love them.  And they did.

Luv’ed them so much that one night a few weeks ago, we walked in from being out and found bits of plastic packaging scattered throughout the room.  The room was decimated with small pieces of plastic stuff.

“Oh crap!” Malcolm heard me shouting as I walked into the house first. Well, actually my language was much worse than a simple “crap”.  Every swear word that rhymes with “duck”, “luck” and “truck” spewed from my lips. “What did you two do?” I asked Dolce and Amore.  d-and-a-1Hearing me from out in the garage, Malcolm hesitated coming on through. He knew there had to be a mess and he knew if he waited in the garage long enough, perhaps I would be the one to clean it up. He didn’t know what, just that he didn’t want to deal with it. What he didn’t realize was the girls had counter-surfed the kitchen and nabbed the Bull Stick package. Twelve sticks missing. One $27 bag of Bull Penis’ ripped and shredded throughout the room. I have no doubt it was Dolce, our sneaky  instigator. Just as I have no doubt that Amore quickly joined in to get her share of the loot.  They both looked guilty. And pretty damn pleased with themselves.

When I went to grab the broom to clean up their mess, I saw an unopened Bull Stick bag sitting above the garage refrigerator that Malcolm had purchased on his last trip to Costco. I chuckled to myself, knowing Malcolm is just as bad as I am.

Like I said, spoiled.  Rotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

competition

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Malcolm and I have several running competitions.  I guess this comes from both of us being the youngest in sibling packs of three older sisters for me and five older sibs for Malc.

Our fun and games range from who has had the most speeding tickets: Malcolm wins this one hands down. To who loads the dishwasher better:  Malcolm only thinks he wins this one.  I lay claim to being the better cook, the better Boggle player, and the better driver (hee hee). We see saw between who holds their breath longest  and who can guess the correct answers to questions that come over the radio. We bet over the silliest things.  Malcolm still claims I owe him 20 massages.  It’s so not gonna happen.  (He just read this and has made me add:  “It’s 31 massages” and he hasn’t had a back rub since our second year of marriage).  Well hello, once I got the ring I didn’t need to give any more massages. Duh!

But there is one competition we are stilling wrangling over – who the girls love more.  Me or him.  Him or me.

This ongoing battle is a tough contest, cuz one, Malcolm tends to the girls during the day while I’m at work. And, even though, I bring home their bacon, Malcolm gets to fry it. And two, Malcolm gives them their daily walks out in Galisteo.  An event Dolce and Amore equate with pure ecstasy.  So, I then try to make up for it with sneaking Dolce and Amore treats when Malc isn’t looking.   Hey, I have to make up the lost ground somehow. Spoil’em with dog biscuits and they will love you forever, I say.

All this has Malc and I determining the “most loved” winner in other ways…..

You know your dog loves you when they sleep with you.  This one is a tie.  Dolce and Amore takes afternoon naps with Malcolm but they crawl into bed with me when I retire for the night.  Malcolm – 1    Megs – 1

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Yea! I win the this next one!  Dolce is very protective of me.  When I’m out in the garage, Dolce sits in the doorway, guarding for intruders.  She’ll sit there never moving from her spot, patiently waiting for me.  Protecting me.  Malcolm – 0   Megs  – 1

They get excited when we come home.  Bummer.  Another tie.  Malcolm – 1  Megs – 1

Dogs aren’t cuddlers by nature, so when they do snuggle in with their owners, it’s love at it’s finest. Dolce has always been a cuddler, curling up in my lap for love and hugs.  Amore is just now learning the art of the couch cuddle. 8 1/2 years old and she’s finally getting it. And since, Dolce is kinda mine and Amore is kinda Malcolm’s, I win by default.  Malcolm – 0   Megs – 1

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Nothing says “I trust you” more than showing your vulnerability.  If an animal is comfortable exposing their underside, they trust you.  It makes our heart smile when Dolce or Amore is on their back, front paws bent at the elbows, back legs up in the air. Sound asleep and snoring.  Even our fat cat goes paws up.  There’s this warm tingly feeling we get when we see their unspoken trust.  Malcolm – 1  Megs – 1

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They jump on you.  Oh, Malcolm gets this point.  We all know Amore is our A.D.D. child and has no boundaries.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard Malcolm scream, “not my nuts!” as Amore is jumping on him, over him, or around him. Malcolm – 1  Megs – 0

In most cases, tail wagging is a sure sign of affection.  Dolce will offer a gentle tail thump when I rub her ears, or when I whisper sweet nothings as she leans up against me. Amore gives more of tail whack and hack as she checks in on Malcolm when he reads on the couch. And while Malcolm gets a point for Amore’s stronger tail wag, he loses two for her breaking our coffee mugs in one strong tail swipe.  He needs to learn to keep the coffee cup away from tails.  Malcolm (-1)    Megs – 0

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In actuality, dog licks are doggy kisses.  Plain and simple. When your dog gives you that wet, sloppy tongue, it’s a kiss. A canine kiss, but a kiss all the same. It’s affection and love all roll up in one pooch smooch.  Amore is our licker. She can spend an hour just licking your hand and licking it clean. Malcolm’s hand. Point goes to Malc.  Malcolm – 1   Megs – 0

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When there’s thunder, there’s lightning.  When that boom boom boom goes off in the far distance, Amore gets scared.  Scared, shaking and trembling, Amore is a wreck. When scared, dogs will stay close to their human caretakers, wanting their reassurance.  When Amore is scared, she wants to be on top of us.  Particularly Malcolm.  And particularly me. It doesn’t matter which one of us.  This is a tie.  Malcolm – 1   Megs  – 1

Oh gawd! They follow you. Everywhere. From room to room.  To the kitchen, to the den, to the bathroom.  NOTHING is sacred.  If you close the door, they paw it.  If you lock the door, they scratch it.  Because Malcolm gets shadowed during the daytime hours, he gets this little gimme. Tap it on in Malc.  Malcolm – 1  Megs – 0

How do you know your dog loves you?  Man, you can feel it! It’s in their eyes as they gaze at you.  It’s in their body language as they lean up against you.  It’s in their gentle muzzle as they nose for treats and it’s in their hugs and cuddles and loves.  It’s their joy in walking a new trail and their happiness when riding in the car.  Malcolm and I both feel their love. It’s a great feeling.  Malcolm – 1   Megs –  1

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When it comes to who the girls love more….

It’s love-love.  No score.  Unconditional from both Amore and Dolce. For both of us. Malcolm and Megs.

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happy pawlidays!

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it’s mine!

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From day one, the tag line for this blog has been, “if it falls on the floor, it’s mine!” You guys have no idea how apropos this statement has come to mean.

Two words.  Two syllables. But full of meaning and emotion  –  “It’s mine!”

Those two words have taken on a life of its own.  Those two syllables have created a monster.  “It’s mine” has morphed into blurred lines and non-existent boundaries.  “It’s mine” has bestowed entitlement to a dog.  A big dog with a mine of it’s own.  Strong willed and defiant, this dog has decided “it’s mine!” is her M.O.

I’m not talking a few dropped cheese crumbs on the floor tiles, however that’s part of the problem. It’s a proven fact, all edible scraps that fall onto the floor is in canine territory and belongs to our dog mops.  And, I’m not just talking about bones to chew on or Kongs to gnaw.  I recognize those are in the possession of our girls, purchased for their enjoyment.  It’s theirs.

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Nope, I’m talking about the true doggy definition of “it’s mine.”  I’m talking Amore. You see, she believes everything is hers.  It goes something like this…..

ME:  Amore!  That’s my shoe!

AMORE:  No, it’s mine!

ME:  No, Amore, it’s my shoe.

AMORE:  But, I like it, therefore it’s mine.

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my shoe

ME:  All shoes are mine, Amore.

AMORE:  Well, it’s in my mouth, so it’s mine.

ME:  It doesn’t work like that Amore.  That’s my shoe.

AMORE:  But, I just had it a little while ago, so that makes it mine.

ME:  Amore, let go of my shoe.

AMORE:  It looks like mine, so it must it’s mine.

ME:  Bad girl!  Drop!

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grrrrrr…..

AMORE:  I saw it first, it’s mine.

AMORE:  Do not even think of it, it’s mine!

ME:  It was in the closet, it’s not yours.

AMORE:  If I chew it, then all the pieces are mine!

ME:  You don’t get my shoe! Or its pieces!

AMORE:  Well, if you put it down, it’s mine!

AMORE:  AND, if I tire of it, it’s still mine!

ME:  No and NO!

AMORE:  And, if I don’t even want it, it’s mine!

AMORE:  Besides, it’s practically edible, so it’s mine! AH!

ME:  AMORE!  Let me repeat myself, All SHOES ARE MINE!

AMORE:  Not if I can take it, then it’s mine!

ME:  No Shoes or no dinner!

AMORE:  Hee, hee, hee.  If I want it back, it’s mine!

AMORE:  Ok, FINE!  (pout)

AMORE:  Mom?

AMORE:  Mom?

AMORE:  Where’s Dolce’s Kong?

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Mine!

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grand marshal

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Amore and Dolce have always been our ‘go-everywhere’ dogs.  Where we go, they go.  To the store, into town, over to friends, the girls tag-along.  And, it never fails, where they go, they attract attention.  I mean, come on, two big Berners?  Sittin’ side-by-side?  Tails a-waggin?  Loopy grins on their faces?  A day doesn’t go by without Malcolm or I receiving some type of comment on the girls.

Take them to the store and immediately Dolce and Amore jump into the front seats as we exit the vehicle. Other store patrons chuckle over seeing our two dogs, respectfully sitting upright in the driver’s and passenger’s seats.  dolce-in-drivers-seat

“Beautiful dogs,” “Love your dogs,” “What kind of dogs are these,” “Can I pet them?” are words heard regularly, as we load our groceries into the car.

On occasion, we spy people discretely pulling out their phones to snap a quick pic of our prom queens in their limo. They always say it for someone else.  Yeah, right.

Amore and Dolce soak up the attention.  They paw and preen, even do the leaning thing against stranger’s legs as they are ooh’ed and ahh’ed over on our walks.   In an instant, they are the Grand Marshals of the parade.  All important.  All expectant of the praise. Passing out doggy smiles and paw waves like they were throwing penny candy to the spectators.

A few weekends ago, Malcolm and I took the girls up the mountain to hike around in the Aspens. It was a truly beautiful day.  The leaves had already initiated their pageantry of yellows, oranges, and reds as we headed up the trail.  The sky was crystal blue.  The air crisp with the scent of pine boughs and cones.  Amore and Dolce were in canine heaven. New scents and a new trail were theirs for the taking.  Along with more adoration from strangers.

I doubt we had gone more than twenty yards up the trail, when we were stopped by a group of tourists asking about the girls.  “What kind of dogs are they?”  “Can we take a picture with them?” We paused for the Kodak moment.

Another thirty yards and we were hailed by a family with young children.  “Can I pet the doggie?” a brave little lass asked in a small voice.  With nods of permission, she stepped forward to give Dolce a small caress on her head.  Dolce, sweetheart that she is, laid down at the sneaker-clad feet of the little girl, rolling over for a belly rub. Giggles erupted from the child as Amore licked her face.  Little ones are a favorite with our girls.

The next mile was broken up with no less than eleven groups of hikers all asking about our dogs, slowing down our parade up the hill.

In betwimg_0127een, Malcolm and I tried for our own photo-op of our dogs.  I had visions of the perfect Christmas Card.  The girls had visions of more dog worshiping.  Of them.  By others. Cuz they don’t get enough love at home.  NOT!

Every time we stopped for a selfie, people would stop to pet Amore and Dolce. Every time we would strike up the band to move on up the trail, strangers pumped us with questions about the breed of Amore and Dolce.  Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade through New York moved faster than we were getting hiking up the trail.

When we heard there was a small creek up ahead and around a bend, we made that our destination.  The girls would be able to wade in to cool off.  Malc and I would be able to scout for suitable location for our holiday photo shoot.

With the creek in sight, I found a good-sized boulder to pramore-creekop against, the girls found the shallow water, and Malcolm found a fellow hiker to take a few pictures.

Click.  Click.

“Come in closer.” Click.

“No, closer.”  Click.

“You’re too far away.”  Click. Click.

That’s the great thing about digital pictures.  You can delete all the crappy ones and it hasn’t cost you a thing.  Outmalc-amore-creek of 50 or so pictures, we actually had quite a few that were decent.  A couple were card worthy, a few were blog worthy.

The best ones were with our Grand Marshals.  Amore and Dolce were the hit of the parade.

 

 
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When Tiamo had her litter, the pups averaged about one pound each with Dolce and Amore weighing in at .98 lbs and 1.5 lbs respectively.  They were so tiny you could nestle a single puppy in the palm of your hand and still wiggle your pinkie and thumb.  Within 48 hours they had doubled their weight.  We were impressed.

And slightly nervous…

 

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With Momma supplying the nutrition, each puppy easily grew two to four pounds a week.  By the time the little tykes had opened their eyes they had gained some solid substance.  They had outgrown our food scale we used to weigh them, and the palm of our hands as we held them.  It now took two hands to hold our roly poly’s.  We knew the puppies were healthy, which was a good sign.  It was also a sign of things to come.

When we added chow to their diets, Amore and Dolce  were tipping the scales at 14 pounds, give or take a few ounces.   With their fat bellies, they were nothing but huge balls of fur.  Now that I think back on those times, they were bigger than huge.  It was time to be scared.  But noooo, we were oblivious to our future.

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14 lbs. It’s all relative.  To a weightlifter, 14 lbs. is nothing.  They single-handedly lift weights many times that.  To us, fourteen  pounds is huge when it is all wiggly and squirmy.  For us, fourteen pounds is really twenty-eight pounds.  14 lbs. times two.  You never just get one dog on your lap, you get both.

Fourteen pounds can make your wrists ache. And your back twinge as you pick the pups up in your arms. And 14 pounds will soon be 100 pounds.  100 lbs. times two.  We were screwed and there was no going back.

When 14 lbs became 34 pounds in a little over a month later, we knew we were in trouble.  Our food costs doubled as they ate more and more, and our vet bills tripled.  And both girls wanted to sit on us or be beside us.  And there was Tiamo, our momma.  We were a household of dogs.  Our life was never gonna be the same.

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At six months Amore and Dolce hit 65 lbs.,  friends would comment, “Oh, my!” as one of the dogs would lean up against them, causing them to lose their balance.  “Just look at those paws! These are gonna be some big dogs!”  We knew that.  Yup, we knew that.

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Sixty-five pounds cranked up to 84 lbs by the time they had their first birthday.  We were never gonna return to normal.  Our  lives just became all about our girls.  Momma weighed in at 98 lbs. and here were two more fast approaching three digits on the scale.  Within the next year, we were going to be looking at 300 lbs. worth of lap-dogs. Two-thirds of which were still puppies. Yikes!

Over the next two to three years a Berner could easily add another 10-30 lbs onto their frame.  Well into their second and third year, Bernese Mountain Dogs will continue to lay down bone, put on width and substance, and their heads will continue to broaden.  Amore and Dolce were no exception to the general rule of Berners being slow maturing dogs.

Three years old, Amore and Dolce finally grew into their bodies but they were far from mature.  They still had their puppy on.  For over 36 months, Malcolm and I would look at each other and ask,”when will they calm down?”  “When will they grow out of their puppy phase?”  “When will they quit growing?” We were at the 200 marker:  200 pounds of puppy plus 100 pounds of chow a month costing us $200 every 60 days.  We were exhausted.

I can honestly say, to this day, they haven’t.  Grown out of their puppy years that is.  Well, not completely.  They take longer naps and have quit chewing shoes and books, but Amore and Dolce will always be our puppies.  Our girls.  And the best gifts we could have ever given ourselves.

At eight years of age, Amore and Dolce hover just under 100 lbs. each.  Dolce is slightly heavier from eating too many apples, Amore is slightly higher in height.  Both fight over who gets to sit on Malcolm or me.  We have resigned ourselves to dog hair in our wine and canine bodies in our laps.

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There is an old Swiss saying, “Three years a puppy, three years a good dog, three years an old dog and the rest is a gift.”  It’s an accurate description of Bernese Mountain Dogs.

Here’s to our 100 lb. gift(s) that still likes to sit on our lap!

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happy campers

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Like most pet owners, nothing brings us more joy then seeing our beloved four-legged children happy.  And we go out of our way to bring them nothing but an abundance of happiness and comfort.  We buy them special treats and toys, make sure they have soft cushiony pillows to sleep on, take’em on walks.  We love’em, pet’em, provide for them.

Malcolm and I have found a simple scratch behind the ears and Dolce is in ecstasy.  Eyes closed, you just know she is in heaven.  Amore adores a rough love down.  Rub her sides and back haunches like a deep massage and she is in bliss land.  One of the few times she’ll stay still.

They go berserko when it’s time for their hikes, initiating a barking frenzy until loaded into the car.  365 days a year we take them out to the Galisteo basin for their daily walks.  Through rain, snow, wind and cold, we suffer for their happiness.  Our girls love the cold.  Us, not so much.  But we do it cuz we know how much joy it brings them.

“Man, Amore was one happy camper when she spotted a jack rabbit on our hike today!” Malcolm relayed to me when I got home from work.  “She took off after it like a shotgun blast!  Of course, she only ran about 40 yards before she tuckered out.”  Malcolm chuckled over the memory.  “She came back all shiney eyed and excited!”   Amore is our scout, always on the look out for adventure.

Over the years, we have narrowed down Dolce and Amore’s happy list to three main activities. We are talking happy camper activities here.  Total happiness.  Total joy. Two of the three are seasonal.  The third is daily.  And just so you know, treats are a given so they aren’t on the list.

Snow.

There are no two ways about it, Amore and Dolce love the snow.  On occasion they even sleep in it, only to come inside covered with white and hop on the bed at four in the morning shaking off the wet debris.  Snow days are happy camper days.  The girls would live and breathe snow if it was available on a regular basis.  So we bundle up like Ralphie in the Christmas Story movie and take them to play.  We freeze our asses off, along with our noses and our toes to watch Dolce make snow angels and Amore run through the powder like a dolphin.  Their joy brings us joy.

Then there is our harvest.

About every four or five years, if we are lucky enough, come late August through October, we get apples.  Our girls love apples.  No, you don’t understand, they loooove apples.  Love to snap those shiney red orbs off of the low hanging limbs.  Love to lay down in the cool shade of the branches and stock pile the fruit.  And they love to eat’em.

The second she hears the portal door opens, Dolce is out, with Amore on her heels.  They’ll beeline down to our lone fruit tree and burrow into the apple-laddened nirvana. I’m serious here, this tree is their heaven.  You can see their eyes fold back as they tug an apple off it’s mooring.  We watch as they each back up, apple in their mouth and drop the red fruit onto their growing pile of fruit.  Like a kid in a candy store, Dolce and Amore don’t know which apple to chomp on first.  The girls are in their element and they couldn’t be happier.

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On a daily basis, Dolce and Amore bring happy to our hearts.  And, on a daily basis, Dolce and Amore get their third happy.  It’s their special time that has become a ritual.

I like to get up early, get ready for work, and then enjoy a cup of coffee before leaving to head into town.  I feed the girls, grab a mug and read a bit on my iPad.  One by one, Amore and then Dolce come by for their early morning snuggle.  First Amore, always a bit restless, she’ll hop up on the couch lay her head down for a few minutes and then go search out her next adventure.   A scratch on the belly, a rub behind the ears and she is off and running.  Then it’s Dolce’s turn.

Dolce knows the drill.  She positions herself on the sofa, backs up into the couch pocket and gives me the nod.  She knows with a certainty, I’ll gently pull her back into my arms.  It her cuddle time.  They say dogs don’t like to cuddle.  They lie.  My Dolce could stay for hours nestled besides me.  For the next 40 or so minutes, Dolce is in her happy place, content with nuzzles and hugs.  And me…….

I really don’t get much reading done, but I am one happy camper!

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what dog hears

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We all know dogs have selective hearing.

When Amore was in her teenage years, she was a handful.  Headstrong, willful, she refused to “sit”, “stay” or “come” when we called to her.  Totally blew us off.  Even with the promise of a treat, she would ignore us when we issued commands.  Oh, she heard us alright.   We would see her ears twitch, her head would cock to the side, her little brain thinking and then she would give us her tail.  The canine equivalent to flipping us the bird.

Malcolm would put on his serious voice, deepening the word as he gave the command.  “Come” he would say in his stern sargent’s voice.

“Come!” he repeated, sharpening the directive.

“Amore! COME!!” he said for the third time.

Amore gave him the look and went back to what she was doing. There was no “three-time’s-a-charm” ol’ college try.  And, after the third repeat, dogs really don’t tune in anymore.  All they hear is yada, yada, yada, etc., etc., etc., and so on and so on and so on.

After talking to a dog trainer, we realized Amore just didn’t like the word “come”.  Why?  It started with a “C”.  Poor baby, it hurt her ears. It seems a lot of dogs comprehend “H” and “W” word commands easier.  Who knew?

Word commands such as HERE, HEEL, HUPP (H + up), and WAIT,  are more pleasing to their ears.  All one-syllable words.  Words like HOLD,  HUGG, WHERE, WALK, and  WHAT (to be said when furiously barking) became synonymous with the old standards of, come, sit, follow, up, stay, stand, no, load up, fetch and find.

Malcolm and I liked the new commands, not only were they one-syllable, but they were mostly four-letter words.  Always a good feeling to spew those.  In the past, there was nothing like a four-letter word to get the point across.

G.A.W.D    D.A.M.N   it   D.A.W.G.   C.O.M.E.!  Screamed in frustration.

or, my favorite,

F # & K  –   N.O.T.T.  my  N.U.T.T.s, said in pain as Amore jumped, paws first, on Malcolm as he was spawled on the couch.

We switched our command to “HERE” (minus the gawd damn) and lo and behold, Amore obeyed. Came wanting her treat, but she came none the less.  We now say “WAIT” to Amore before allowed to sit on the sofa, with all body parts preserved.  HUPP is for the girls to load up into the car for a WALK, and HUGG will get you a cuddle and dog licks as their paws wrap around our waist.

And Malcolm and I, we have a running joke about what Amore and Dolce actually hear……..

what a dog hears

 

 

 

pin the tail

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In 2002, Malcolm and I threw the dart.

The finely chiseled point hit Santa Fe, New Mexico on our relocation map and a few months later we packed up and moved to the Land of Enchantment.  As we were narrowing down the destination to call our new home, I informed Malc I would moved anywhere west of the Mississippi.  Malcolm calmly informed me, the zip code we called “ours” must have the New York Times delivered.

Well, I can safely say, Santa Fe is west of the mighty river but the Times delivery was a bit spotty the first few years of residence.  Yes, it was delivered, sometimes only 3 days after print.  Other times we would collect a weeks worth of daily papers crammed in our mail box.

We contracted with a REALTOR® and started the process of buying our dream home.  It was September and the weather was gorgeous.  As we walked through houses that fit our criteria, attended open houses on the weekends, and looked through the Internet for FSBOs, we found one consistent fact.  Very few homes in Santa Fe have air conditioning.  For that matter, very few even have swamp coolers.

“Oh, you don’t really need them,” our REALTOR® stated.  “It’s only warm a few weeks in June.”

“What do you mean no central air?”  Malcolm questioned.  Malcolm hails from Hotlanta, Georgia.  My roots are from Central California.  Hot, hot, hot summers were a staple for both of us.

“Seriously, the temperature here only gets to about 85 – 90 degrees for a couple of weeks in June.”  SOLD!  We signed the mortgage sans air conditioning and ceiling fans.

Our beautiful fall turned into a cold winter.  We have radiant heat and my toes have never been so warm. We loved the snow and the cold. We were loving our new digs. Then the snow melted into a windy spring.

“When does the wind stop?” I asked our now REALTOR® friend.

“Dont’t worry, this is just our March winds.”  She replied.

It was May.

“Don’t plant anything until after May 15,” she added.  “We could easy have another freeze or some spring snow.”  And we did have another freeze and more snow. With snow in May, there was no way our summers would be reminiscent of our past ones.  We smiled to ourselves, glad to be away from the humidity of Georgia and the high temperatures of California.

We blew into June, by now well versed in New Mexico’s erratic weather.  From past experiences, we both knew 85 degrees of hot days was nothing.  Anything under 95 degrees was cool compared to where we came from.  We convinced ourselves we didn’t need manufactured cold air.  We opened our doors and windows and captured the cross winds. For the most part, it worked.

Through out the years, June in Santa Fe has varied from cold to cool to warmish to hot.  We have installed ceiling fans where needed.  Five of them.  We have purchased oscillating fans for air movement.  Six of them.  Our REALTOR® was correct – the hot temperatures last only a few weeks.  Usually from mid-June to Labor day, with July cooling down some from the monsoons.

Until this year.

This year, it has been 100 and hell degrees since Memorial weekend.  It is time to flip the calendar to August.

Dolce and Amore have suffered right along with us.  It’s too hot to walk them, too hot to leave them in the car as we run errands in town.  Too hot period. The temperatures this summer have been almost unbearable for the girls.

Even with the fans spinning on high, the hot summer air has been stifling.   On occasion I’ve resorted to using their bushy wagging tails as a fan, convincing Malcolm to rub their ears as I positioned myself behind one of the girls to catch some tail wind.  

We watch the girls panting on the cool brick floor in misery.

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We watch them move from room to room searching out the coolest areas of the house.

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We take them on car drives with the air conditioning blasting. Not going anywhere in particular – just driving in a cold car to cool down.

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We have even taken them down to the local pool to give them some relief.

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We have clipped their fur as short was possible, trimming their feathers, their bellies, their sides and chests.  We fill their water bowl with ice cubes for chomping. We keep water spritzers close by to spray some coolness on Dolce or Amore.  It’s still too hot.

And it’s still 100 and hell degrees.

 

 

 

screeeeeech!

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screeeeeech.

“Did you hear that?” I questioned Malcolm.  We were both reading our pads in the living room, the windows and doors open to allow the gentle cross-breeze through.  It was one of those early evenings where the work was done and the day was wrapping up.  Malcolm had poured us each a glass of an Australian Malbec to sip as we read.  Fat cat was sprawled on her back, paws in the air.  Dolce was gnawing on a bone and Amore was wandering the perimeter.

SCREeeeeech.

“WTF?” Malcolm heard the loud chirring noise this time.  My eyes flew to the ceiling.  The large vigas up high will crack and groan as the house settles but this screech was different.  This sounded like it was coming from the guest bedroom and it was louder than a mouse.

SCREEEeeech.

“What do you think it is?” I asked.

“No idea!”  Another loud squeak was heard, along with a heavy thud.

“Do you think it came from down in the guest room?”

“Why don’t you go check?”

“You go check!  I’m not going down there!”

SCREEEEEECH!  THUMP! THUD!

Crap!  This time the screeeeeech reverberated between the living room and guest room.

“It’s coming closer!”  I whispered to Malcolm.  “Do you think a critter came indoors?”  We’ve had a few varmints brought in by Gordita and the girls.  A couple of times a bird has flown in via the fireplace chimney.  This screeeeeech wasn’t human.  It brought the hairs on the back of my neck straight out.  My reptilian brain was flashing danger, danger.  Another screeeeeech came from under our large picturesque windows in the living room.  Followed by a thump and a thud.   It was coming closer.

“Where are the girls?”  I did a quick head count.  Gordita was still on her back, paws up, unperturbed by the noise.  Still intent on her bone, Dolce was uncaring of our panic.  Where was Amore?   Dear god, where was she? With the doors open, Amore had been in and out.   Had she been attacked?  Coyotes roam fairly close to the house, could she have been lured out from the safety of our portal?

SCREEEEEECH!

The hairs on my arm were on full alert.  I slowly backed up, inching towards the garage.  When my back hit the door, I reached for the knob and slowly opened it, sliding my arm through the crack to grab a nearby shovel.  Any weapon was better than nothing.  Malcolm headed to the portal to find Amore.

SCREEEEEECH!  THUMP!  THUMP! THUD!

I raised the shovel in attack mode.

“psst!”

“Psst!”

“PSST!”

“Megs!  Come out here!”  Malcolm whispered from the portal, his index finger raised up to his lips, silently telling me to keep quiet.  I tip-toed out, shovel in hand.  Malcolm had stepped off the brick portal and was leaning around the corner of the house.  I peered around him, my heart beating out of my chest.

SCREEEEEECH! THUD!

And there was Amore.

SCREEEEEECH!

Chasing after lizards.

THUMP!

As they climbed up the stuccoed sides of our house.

THUD!

The screeeeeeching noise was Amore jumping up and raking her paws along the outer walls.  Her strong claws scraping the stucco as she reached out to snag a lizard.  Imagine a large canine taking vertical leaps against  the solid structure of our house.  That was Amore.  Her whole body stretching upwards as she sprang into the air.  Her focus solely on the lizard.  Her paws screeeeeeching against the wall as she slid back down to the ground.

The thumps and thuds was her 100 pound body sumo wrestling with the same barrier of wood and stucco.  I lowered the shovel, my heart rate slowing, my panic subsiding.  The movement attracted Amore’s attention.

Eyes shiny and bright, tail wagging in pure, unadulterated joy, Amore had her catch dangling from her muzzle.  Amore had tagged her first lizard.

Thank god it wasn’t a snake.

May

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It always amazes me how fast time flies.

As a family with only dogs and one fat cat, Malcolm and I find that most days merge into weeks into months into years as life speeds by.  Those days tend to be a blur of memories, mostly good ones, mostly happy ones, but mixed in with the fond remembrances are the harsh realities of life.

Earlier this week Malcolm and celebrated our anniversary.  As we reminisced our married life, memories of our early days brought forth giggles and laughs over old jokes, old adventures, and old ‘remember when’s. It also brought saddened smiles of other anniversaries.  Our ‘borrowed’ kid, Sam, and our first child, Tiamo.  One was our nephew, the other our beloved Bernese Mountain Dog.  Both were ‘firsts’ in our lives.

May is the month we honor Moms, congratulate Grads, and celebrate Anniversaries.  And May is the month we remember those who have left our lives but not our hearts……


 

Malcolm and I don’t have children – we have dogs.  Use to be three, now two huge, wonderfully sweet, spoiled brats.  Both of us were in our forties when we meet and married, well beyond the age to consider kids. But still young enough to fall into the pet trap.

Like most parents with real kids, Tiamo, our first Bernese Mountain Dog, was easy to raise and didn’t give us any trouble.  Much. We spent hours training her, socializing her, correcting her, loving her.

Santa Fe is a dog friendly town, permitting canines on leash most everywhere and we took her everywhere that allowed dogs.  She was part of our family, we were part of her pack. There was never a time she wasn’t with either Malcolm or I.

Tiamo would sit at our feet, under the table, while we sat outside eating lunch at the local cafes and bistros. She loved to watch the other patrons, always hoping there might be other dogs around.  She was so well-behaved, little nippers would climb all over her and she loved the attention.  She loved people and other animals, especially Thugs.

But most of all, she LOVED Sam.

Sam was our nephew and was loved like a son.  In so many ways, he was the kid we never had.

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One freezing cold January day, Sam arrived in Santa Fe. He arrived shirtless, in shorts and wearing flip-flops. He planned to stay for a short weekend visit. He was passing through New Mexico on his way to life.

I had never “truly” met this nephew of Malcolm’s. He attended our wedding, but like most brides on the wedding day, I didn’t remember much. As for Malcolm, it had been years since he had any true contact with him. Short emails and such, but no one-on-one, face-to-face conversations. In truth, neither one of us knew Sam very well, and me not at all. Neither one of us knew what to expect. I have no doubt Sam felt the same way.

Sam was 23 years, not even a quarter of a century old, and traveling through his life. While both Malcolm and I were fast approaching the half-dollar mark and getting ready to slide down the other side.  Sam was just starting on his expedition, his life’s trek. We were winding down from ours. We were poles apart on where we all were in our lives, in age, in experiences, and in goals. Somehow we managed to find common ground and meet in the middle.

My plan was to cook up a storm, for in my experience, food solved all dilemmas. Sam was in his early twenties, an age when all males ate a lot, extra servings and seconds, so double batches were required.   I went to work in the kitchen.

Malcolm’s plan was to show Sam around town, drive up through the mountains, expose Sam to the wonders of Santa Fe. Malcolm gassed up the SUV.

Sam’s plan was to document life through his travels, videoing his journey, recording his thoughts. He had graduated from college and his young artist’s soul was begging to be set free and loose in the wilds. His jump off was Santa Fe. He had tricked out his truck and camper into a cozy living area. He jimmy-rigged a camera mount on his bicycle to record his wanderings, pulled some money from his savings and had a full tank of gas and ideas. Ready. Set. Go.

He never left Santa Fe. One week later, after living in his truck at the Wal-Mart parking lot, Sam moved into our household, taking over the guest bedroom.

I had someone new to spoil, while  Malcolm had someone new with which to impart wisdom and advice.   Not having kids, we loved the fact he came diaper free and with manners.  He was trained.  We bonded quickly and the three of us became a family. We loved Sam – Sam loved us. Sam was special. Unique. We “adopted” him without any hesitation.

When Malcolm was turning fifty, I surprised him with a Bernese Mountain Dog puppy.  Born on Thanksgiving Day, Tiamo joined our new family when she was eleven weeks old. We all instantly fell in love with her, especially Sam. Although, I think he originally saw her as a chick magnet with four legs and fur.  I mean, seriously, what female under 80 and not blind, would not fall in love with a Bernese puppy! For that matter, Sam was a hottie. What female under 30 and/or blind would not fall for a tall handsome Texan.

Sam took part in Tiamo’s training.  He assisted in walking her, grooming her and teaching her to sit, along with other commands. Sam would volunteer to bring Tiamo to the vet when she needed her booster shots. He took care of Tiamo when we went away for travel and trips. Sam was Tiamo’s third caregiver. The two of them were inseparable.

When Sam later moved into town, I think he missed Tiamo more than he missed us.  I know Tiamo missed him something fierce.  She would go absolutely bonkers when Sam came to visit and wouldn’t leave his side.  Malcolm and I were ignored. For Tiamo, Sam was it.

Tiamo would have this goofy grin on her face when Sam showed up.  Her eyes would light up and she would prance around, showing off for Sam.  Sam always brought her a treat.  Something special just for her.  It got so every time Sam came, she would immediately reach for his pant’s pocket, nosing her muzzle, sniffing for her treat.   Sam never failed to disappoint her.

Tiamo was the happiest when the three of us were together.  Sam, Malcolm and I. Plus Tiamo. She would grab her toy of the week, gnawing on it while laying at our feet, listening to our voices as we caught up on our lives.  Her family together, Tiamo was happy and content.

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Tiamo

Sam loved the outdoors.  Even on the coldest of days, he and Malcolm would sit outside, watching the sun disappear behind the horizon, enjoying a glass of wine, a bottle of beer, discussing life.  They would pull up two old wooden rocking chairs to the edge of the portal, facing west, and observe the sky’s colors as they faded from brilliant blue to fiery orange to pitch black.  Tiamo at their feet.  They would still be talking as the stars turned on their lights, twinkling from above.  Tiamo was content to be with her “boys”.

Some nights, Malcolm and Sam would light a small fire in the clay Chiminea for warmth.  Other times, they would gently rock their chairs to the cadence of their conversation, low murmurs that would tease Tiamo into a soft sleep at their feet. During the summer months, Sam and Malcolm would take Tiamo for midnight walks after it had cooled down from the day’s heat.  Tiamo happily trotting along besides the two of them. Plainly said, Tiamo LOVED Sam.

When Sam was 27, he passed away. The first year, after Sam’s death, was the hardest.  Malcolm and I had to re-adjust our family back down to two with a dog. Along with Tiamo, we had to re-adjust to never seeing Sam again.  We all mourned.  We all missed Sam.  Like barbed wire twisted around our hearts, we felt every razor-sharp prong squeezing into our grief and sorrow.  Our hearts were bleeding, bruised and beat up. Tiamo’s was as well.

The following spring after Sam’s death, I started a memorial garden.  West of our covered portal, in full view of the day’s end, I planted flowery shrubs, bushes and flowers in every color to remind us of the sun winking good night.  Fiery reds and oranges, brilliant blue hues, twinkling whites and luminous purples. Cheerful yellows and soft pinks. Bright colors to reflect life’s wonder. Colorful shades of nature reminiscent of watching the sun disappear behind the Sandias as all of us conversed. A salute to our loved ones. A nod to Sam. We missed our Sam, but are so thankful he joined our life for what little time we had with him.

We have since laid flagstone, moved the clay Chiminea pot to the middle of the stonework and added more wooden rocking chairs. Birdhouses and yard art are scattered around to commemorate the joy of life.  Sam’s life. Bright colors surround the garden, flowers edging the stone’s perimeter. Pinon, pine trees and junipers providing the shade and adding a wind break.  It has become a happy place. It is a continual work in progress.

Tiamo was half way through her sixth year when Malcolm and I had to put her down.  Cancer.  Heart-wrenching.  Sad.  Deep. It was early May and we had two weeks to prepare for the finality of losing her.  We had been through the grief of losing Sam. Now we were going to go through the heartache and anguish of losing another beloved child.

There was no question that we would bury Tiamo at home in our Memorial Garden. A place where Tiamo would sit at Sam’s feet as Malcolm and Sam watched the sun set. Malcolm had chosen an area in the garden where Tiamo loved to lay while Sam and Malcolm chatted, solving the world’s problems.  Under a big juniper tree, he started to dig her burial plot.

As Malcolm prepared Tiamo’s final resting spot, Tiamo laid by the deepening hole and watched, silently giving us her acceptance of what was to come.   She was ready.  We were not.

We didn’t want to let her go. Memories of her as a puppy, remembrances of Sam “borrowing” Tiamo to assist him in picking up long haired co-eds, recollections of Tiamo sitting at our feet while on the portal, flooded our hearts. Our beautiful Tiamo was in pain. No more walks on the green belt, no more belly rubs at night, no more trips in the car. We knew it wouldn’t be long.

Our veterinarian had told us we would know when to bring her in. “When it’s time to stop the suffering, you’ll know,” she said, her eyes filled with sympathy.

Malcolm and I felt like we were playing at being God, making the decision about when to end Tiamo’s life, when to “bring her in.” “When it was time” turned into “then it was time” way too soon. With tears in our eyes and a heavy, burdened heart, we put Tiamo down. Again, Malcolm and I deeply grieved.

When we bring pets into our lives, we come to the understanding that, most likely we will outlive them by many years. Most likely there will be many other pets in between. We had already put Thugs down, our aging cat of nearly twenty-two years. Malcolm and I accepted that. Hate it, but know it, and know this is life.  This is the harsh reality we all go through.  Damn it hurts.

We buried Tiamo in her favorite spot, shaded by junipers and surrounded by color, facing west to watch the sun set.  She is deeply missed.

I would like to believe Sam and Tiamo are high in the sky, in their happy place together.  Tiamo has her “Sam” to play with, sniffing out an endless supply of treats from his pockets, prancing around in a field of soft green clover.  Sam has Tiamo, keeping him company while he enjoys the fresh air and outdoors.

We miss our kids.

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wiggle butt

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I doubt there is a dog alive that doesn’t have one.  A wiggle butt that is.

That happy dance of joy performed just for you when you return home.  That warp-speed tail wag when it is chow time.  That hinny shake when it’s time for a w-a-l-k.  That twirl of excitement when car keys rattle and a trip in the truck is gonna happen.

I doubt there is a dog alive that doesn’t have a three-foot leap when an adventure is about to start.

That gyrating spin of tail and fur when the back door is opened for escape.  That springing vault over the back of a sofa when the frig door is opened.  That hurdle over arms and legs  when they hear the garage door rolling up and the car being parked. That tail waggle bound over muddy puddles, through rain, sleet and snow.

I doubt there is a dog alive that doesn’t voice their opinion when the doorbell peals.

That barking frenzy disco rendered when they realize someone is on the other side of the door. That clamorous running from room to room to announce we have company. That twist and turn accompanied with loudness when they spot another person on the trail.

I doubt there is a dog alive that doesn’t have one.  A wiggle butt that is.

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lassie

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How come

with just a few barks

everyone can understand

that Lassie is saying

Timmy fell down the well

but with my endless whining and gnawing

you can’t understand

that I am saying

I’d rather the earth swallowed me whole

than go out in public wearing this raincoat

     by Francesco Marciuliano


After Dolce spent weeks at the vet’s recovering from her several surgeries last summer, she returned to us with a new vice.  Her days rubbing paws with other canine inmates manifested into a  penchant to be heard. In the 53 days spent at the vet’s healing, Dolce learned how to bark.  Loud.  Often. And for no reason.

This is no Lassie bark.  This is no “the house is burning down and I’m saving you” bark.  It’s not a doorbell bark or a TV bark or a car just drove up bark.  Nope.  This is a trumpet of deafening, abrasive clamoring.  With no translation. No explanation.

Now, Tiamo, she had a few Lassie bark moments.  She would come down into the den as Malcolm and I watched TV and do the bedtime bark shuffle.  She would stand in the doorway and back up as she barked three times.  It was nine o’clock and time for me to come to bed.  Nine o’clock on the dot.  She never missed the dot.  Three sharp barks with exclamation marks.  She would then race back to the bedroom and wait for me.

Once Tiamo came down to the den calling out to us with an excited yawp.  There was enough bellow in her bluster to give us pause.  It wasn’t nine yet, there had been no yelp from the TV, we were curious as to her behavior.  I followed her back up into the kitchen and discovered Thugs, our old and aging cat at the time, had gotten himself stuck on the counter and could not get down.  He had expanded all his energy in his jump up and now found himself without the stamina to climb down.  Thug’s days of enterprising activity had long passed him by.  He had twenty years of hard living behind him and his life style had catch up to him.  Tiamo just wanted her buddy safe, down on the ground where she could look after him.

Another time, another barking frenzy, Tiamo came to warn us the replacement mousers had knocked over a glass vase full of water.  Not only was there water all over the table and floor, but shards of glass was everywhere.  Her mayday kept our bare feet from being sliced up.

But Dolce, she just barks.

Bark.  Bark.  Bark.  She knows only one word.  Bark.

It’s all about context.

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conspiracy theory

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Somewhere within a normal weekend, I sort through my dirty laundry to start my standard three loads of wash for the week.  Whites, coloreds, and darks.  I find myself doing the usual routine of coloreds first, so I can start the drying process of the “hang-dry” only sweaters, then on to the darks, and lastly the delicates, the unmentionables, the whites.  Those take some genteel care.

Somewhere within all three loads of laundry are a multitude of socks.  White ones, colored ones, and dark ones.  They go into the washer as a pair.  Side by side they spin together, dancing the wash waltz through soap and suds.  When the cycle ends, they get tossed within a soggy pile of wet mess into the dryer.  It’s here where the marriage tumbles.  Throw in a bounce or two and what used to be matching pair of argyle socks is now a fight of unraveling yarn.

Sadly, Mr. and Mrs. Bobby Socks, the once matching duo of socks is now separated and divorced.  Single.   Alone.

As I sort and fold together the matching pairs, there is always one lone sock leftover.  I doubt there isn’t a weekend that goes by that I don’t lose a cute little toe warmer.  And stupid me, I hang on to those single leftovers, with hopes they will partner up again.  Surely, the other matching sock will come marching back home.  I have a whole drawer of single socks just waiting to get back into dating again.  Just waiting to be part of the pair, folded back into productivity and in the proper sock drawer.  All they need is a matching mate.

Unless Amore or Dolce get a hold of them. Amore or Dolce are home wreckers (I’m not sure whom is the canine culprit) .  Those little bitches are Sock Stealers!  That’s what they are.

It’s bad enough to lose a sock from the dryer, but to have Dolce happily be the other woman, stealing away Mr. Robert Sock is too much!  Chewing away the fibers of a solid cotton partnership, leaving holes in a marriage of toes and a heel, is beyond me.   How dare she!

For Amore to drag the morally-lacking Mr. Sock out to the muddy, snow melting pen into oblivion is to lose all trust in our canine friends.  To purposely separate a knee-hi couple, to deliberately come between a smart-wool pair,  to destroy a happily knitted toe’n heel matched duo, is, well, unbecoming of our girls.

I thought I had trained them better.  Raised them properly.  Guided them gently through their middle years. BUT NOOOooooo!  They have to go steal socks!  And with no remorse.  Does she look guilty?  Remorseful?  Sorry?  Nope, not Amore.  That is her giving the “what? I don’t see a chewed up, destroyed sock sitting on my pillow right next to me” look.  The “I don’t know what you are talking about” look.  Notice the non-eye contact, the ignorance of the situation?  AND do you notice the huge disconnect of the elephant in the room?  A huge hole in the toes.  Welcome to my world.

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Do you think this happens to Malcolm’s socks.  Oh, no, not to him! Come to think of it, I probably wouldn’t give a rats-ass if it was one of his socks.  All of his are white and thrown into one big happy orgy of a drawer.  He doesn’t sort and fold, he doesn’t match up, he wouldn’t even notice a sock that was newly divorced.

This is a conspiracy!

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hellwoooo 2016

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Happy New Year Everyone! 

May your 2016 be filled with 1.5 cadrillion dog licks and kisses.

Yup, it’s the end of the year where we count our blessings and hope for a great new year.  In just 48 hours, 2016 will be here, ringing in a whole new set of hopes and maybes and breakable resolutions.  Malc and I are glad this past year is behind us.  It was a hard one for us.

At best, 2015 was an interesting year for Malcolm and I.  We are thankful it went fast and furious, and didn’t slow down.  We made it through 365 days of 2015 hell.

2015’s scorecard reflected one major surgery (I’m all better, thankmutt manuscript cover you), the lost of one very dear friend (this one hurt deep), we endured a jury and trial (don’t worry, we won), we experienced the near-death of Amore (lots of tears), withstood several surgeries for Dolce (horribly expensive – two month vet stay), and my second book, the mutt manuscripts was published (Malcolm was pulling his hair out as he edited the book).  Woven in, out, and between the year’s hardships were Dolce and Amore, who unfailingly gave us more love and comfort than you could ever imagine.  Dolce and Amore helped us through the rough patches of 2015.

Our hearts couldn’t help but smile as Dolce made angels in the snow.  Her enjoyment sliding down the hill as she wiggled to gain speed lifted our spirits.

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We giggled over Amore’s silly antics as she stole Malcolm’s place on the sofa and then looked at him with a question in her eyes, “What?  Don’t look at me, you’re the one who got up and left!”

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While I was recovering from surgery, the girls instinctively knew to be protective of my leg.  Not once did Amore step on my leg while I was resting in bed (unlike her usual, know no boundaries, step all over you style).  She would come around from the other side of the bed and gently lay by my side for company.

When we were grieving, a soft muzzle would find it’s way on our lap, offering solace.   When we needed a distraction, we found a snake in the house one of the girls brought in.  Nothing like a big scream of fright to divert your thoughts when you walk within 14″ of a snake.  Doesn’t matter it was already dead.  It was a snake.  End of discussion.

Morning coffee came with Dolce curled up with me on the couch as I read my emails on my iPad before I left for work.  And they say dogs don’t cuddle.

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Afternoon naps would find Malcolm sandwiched between fur and paws and warm comfort.  Dinner came garnished with a side of dog hair loving shared by our dogs.  What would we do without some dog hair protein?

Dolce and Amore helped us rally throughout the year.  They brought us outdoors for their walks, encouraging us to breathe in the fresh air.

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Sunshine, snow, and a brisk breeze will definitely rid one of life’s stresses. They gave us routine, getting us up at 5:00 a.m. every morning for their breakfast and they gave us our groove back.  Stella would be proud.

That was our year.  Dolce and Amore’s tally for the last 365 days goes something like this…..

  • 1 book published about us! Yea! We’re celebrities!
  • 1 snake in the house (this should go on Gordita’s list, we didn’t bring it inside, she did!)
  • 3 new dog pillows (Costco has’em cheap)
  • 3 trips to Duke City to pick up friends at the Sunport (we love company – more petting for us)
  • 4 mud days (rainy days are the best for paw painting the brick floors)
  • 6 canine surgeries (1 stomach twist – 5 ACL repairs)
  • 8 pig ears (Rats, only 8, cuz our Mom and Dad put us on a diet)
  • 10 lizards caught by Amore
  • 12 bones (we don’t get these much any more)
  • 15 photo bombs  (hee hee hee)
  • 16 days with Debbie our doggy sitter (she loves us!)
  • 29 snow angel days (these are the best!)
  • 31 bags of dog food (yummm yummmm yummmmmm)
  • 58 days in a crate (“this totally blew!” Dolce with the ACL surgeries)
  • 365 walks in the park (Yippee!)
  • 365 couch seat steals  (Amore 365 – Malcolm 0)
  • 365 nights of blanket hogging and pillow stealing
  • 365 days (minus days mom was recovering from surgery – we couldn’t jump on her like we use to) of love and cuddles
  • 365 afternoon naps with Malcolm  (stretch and yawn)
  • 365 kitchen drive-bys (times two)
  • 5,432 times ‘tween the human legs (North and South bound)
  • 1 billion dog paw prints (on brick floor, rugs and in our hearts)
  • 1 zillion selfies (but dad had to hold the camera)
  • 1 trillion dog hairs floating around
  • 1.5 cadrillion dog licks and kisses

 

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Happy Tail Wags

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Santa’s elves

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malc dogs 2015

fat boy is coming!

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Santa’s comin’

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Amore – Santa – Dolce

happy first of Christmas

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red or green

just say Christmas!