Amore – Santa – Dolce
just say Christmas!
I once worked with this accountant guy, who would walk around the office saying, “Same pair of jeans, different pocket.” It was his slang for the familiar saying, “Robbing Peter to pay Paul.” To him, money was the same no matter which bank account it came from (I didn’t say he was a good accountant). He was a doofus kind of guy, typical nerdy numbers man, can’t even remember what he looked like, but I never forgot his quote.
My dad always carried his keys and loose change in his pockets. Wallet in the back right pocket, his keys in the front left, mixed in with nickels and dimes. Myself? I’ve learned never to put my car keys in any of my pockets after I water-logged the key fob in the washer from forgetting to clear out my pockets. Then I found out how much those fobs cost to replace. Never. Again.
Pockets today are designed differently from yesteryear’s. Frequently advertised as an added feature, you’ll see the “5-pocket” everywhere. That fifth pocket is a joke. It’s not like you can put anything in it. What? Taxi money? Your spare key? A dog treat? And if you do, I can guaran-damn-tee ya’, you will forget about it and all will be in this week’s wash. That fifth pocket is for decor only. Don’t use it.
Now a days, almost all of my pockets harbor food. Dog food and dog treats and dog biscuits. Filled with anything peanut butter flavored, we use dog treats to keep our big mutts in line. You’ll find ’em in my pant’s pockets, coat pockets, vest pockets, even shirt pockets. I have it down to a science: Jean pockets will hold around one large handful of treats, each; Coat pockets can hold up to 50 or so dog biscuits; Vests, somewhere around a cup’s worth if in the outer pockets, less if using the inside ones. Shirts, not so much. Only use the shirt pocket if going through your bank’s drive thru teller and you specifically ask for a dog treat. Tuck that baby in the pen pocket to award your canine for sitting so sweetly in the back seat later.
On walks, both girls know I carry treats in my pockets to reward good behavior. Amore especially, will block my path with dandelion hopes of getting a treat. Ten feet down the trail and she’s body blocking me for a kibble. Dolce is more discreet. 
She’ll dog our steps three feet from behind so she doesn’t miss out when the goods are distributed. She’s right there, eyeing our hands and elbows just in case they rise above the waist line as we reach into the pocket. Dolce is quick to align herself front row and center when the treats come out of hiding.
The other day, the weather just cold enough to need an outer garment, I grabbed my down vest as we were leaving to walk the dogs. To my dismay, I discovered last year’s crumbs when I stuffed my hands in the outer pockets. Uck! Dolce and Amore were all over that once they got a whiff.
Dolce gloating after getting an extra treat!
It used to be I could wear my jeans several times before throwing them in the wash. Until dogs. Until Dolce and Amore. Now I need to pull out my pockets to shake out the dog treat debris. Now crumbs and broken pieces of dog biscuits accumulating deep in the caverns of my pockets need to be shop vac ‘d out. Now, I am a poster child for nose dribble and muzzle drool deposited from Dolce and Amore poking in my pockets, sniffing out treats.
And now, after one wearing, my jeans look and smell like peanut butter dog treats, sometimes worse, depending on where the nose has been. I do lots of laundry and I check out the pockets. All of them.
And now, for some reason, every time I pull out my pockets to shake out the crumbs, I think of doofus saying, “Same pair of jeans, different pocket.”
It rained yesterday. Hallelujah! Praise be to the rain gods.
Even in the normal scheme of things, this is a big deal to us desert dwellers. When looking at the big picture, New Mexico needs every drop of water we can get. Based on what I saw in the rain gauge, I’m guessing we probably had just under two inches of rain.  Rain is good.
Yesterday’s rain was one of those rains we call a “good rain.” A steady fall of moisture, spread out over several hours, allowing the parched soil the ability to soak it all up. This storm also brought a good-sized dump of snow up in the higher elevations. It’s always to good have an early snow pack. Snow is good.
What is not so good is mud. Yesterday’s rain also brought muddy roads, muddy shoes, muddy pants, and muddy towels. It brought muddy couches, muddy bed spreads, muddy rugs and muddy towels. But what it really brought was muddy dogs, muddy paws, muddy floors and muddy towels. Shoes, towels, pants, towels, couches, towels, bed spreads, towels, rugs, towels, dogs, towels, paws, towels, floors and towels being the optimum words.
So, let me set the scene….
Yesterday was Wednesday and Wednesday is cleaning day. The one day of the week my house is actually clean. Not just picked up or straightened up, but mop n’ glowed clean. Walk in the door after work and smell Pine Sol clean. Tables are pledged, dressers are dusted, tubs are scrubbed. With a house full of dogs, having a clean abode is a novelty, cuz it doesn’t happen but once a week. For only a few hours. Max. Come Thursday morning, we’re back to status quo.
Our house cleaner, who is my designated house-cleaning goddess, I mean, I worship that girl, is busy doing her magic. Malcolm is charged with keeping the dogs out of her way while she is whipping the house in shape. As the storm is sending it’s drops of water, she is mopping the brick floors. The dogs, whom had been out in the pen loving the brisk weather, decided to come in from out of the rain. Smart dogs, but obviously not smart enough. Dolce and Amore came inside wet, muddy, happy. My wonderful house-cleaner, not so much – happy that is.
wet dog
The girls didn’t have sense enough to come inside before the rain started, before they wallowed in the mud and before they were nothing but wet dog. A wet, muddy dog does not a happy house cleaner make. My house-cleaning goddess was not happy. At all.
Dolce and Amore had trooped in ooey, gooey mud from one end of the house to the other as they searched for Malcolm. On the what was once a Pine Sol cleaned floor. That had been just mopped. By my now upset house-cleaner. Muddy paw prints now dotted the brick floor from the master bedroom to the office in the back of the house. Muddy paw prints now decorated the cream colored couch. Muddy paw prints were now everywhere.
I came home to three huge piles of wet, muddy towels. There were towels still spread out on the bricks to absorb the uck and muck brought in by Dolce and Amore. Towels used to clean up after our wet canine heathens. Towels used to wipe muddy paws. Towels used to fluff dry the dogs. Towels used to mop up the floors and clean off the couches. Towels were stacked up in the laundry room waiting their turn in the wash. Towels everywhere. All dirty. All wet.
Malcolm is on his fourth load of laundry. I’m hoping my house-cleaning hero returns next week.
It doesn’t take much for Dolce and Amore to realize there is a car trip on the agenda. Just the simple act of putting on socks and shoes will start the dancing chorus of excited barking. The grabbing of the car keys, the purse in hand, are more visuals for them to be on the alert. Two steps taken in the direction of the garage door has the girls pawing at the door knob to be the first one out. Nothing excites the dogs more than the thought of a trip in the car.
For Dolce, her excitement starts at the first right out of our driveway. And then the crouch n’ scrunch starts. What’s that you say? Oh, let me tell ya….
The crouch n’ scrunch is the side effect of frenzied scouting for the first available opportunity to bark. Loudly. It’s the first phase of searching for movement on the hike and bike trail that runs along side the road. It begins with Dolce planting herself in the middle of the back between the two front seats. Then she crouches. Scrooching down, she scrunches her shoulders and head to have the perfect view out the front window. Posture be damned, she is on the look out for fellow canines, humans, cyclists, birds, pesky flies, anything, just give her something to objectify. Okay, nothing works just as well.
Because nothing, is just as good if not better, than barking away at the possible threat a dog on a leash might pose as we drive by at warp speed. A walking human will incite her vocal chords with or without the slightest possibility a dog might be trotting next to them as we pass. A cyclist in the bike lane will receive a barking to just because. It is, therefore she will bark. There is nothing, therefore she will bark some more.
“Dogs feel very strongly that they should always go with you in the car, in case the need should arise for them to bark violently at nothing right in your ear.”
– Dave Barry
The crouch n’ scrunch is Dolce’s latest trademark in car-riding alignment. She compliments the position with a ping-pong head bobble. Right, left, right, left. Her eyes darting up and down the trail as she swings her head back and forth. Wishing. Hoping. For anything.
During the summer months, Dolce’s frustration escalates when her vision is impaired by the tall grass and weeds that sprout up along side the trail. Her brown-haired brows pull down in annoyance when she can’t lay her eyes on the short-legged canines. Those little dogs that fall below the weed line, hidden from sight. You want to really piss Dolce off? Block her view. Pull down the sun visor or lean too far over the center console where she’s on the look out and you’ll get a quick retaliation, doggy style. A strong paw and/or snout will inform you to move back to your own territory. A small yip will instruct you to put up the visor. Don’t obstruct her vista.
We are fortunate this crouch n’ scrunch is a short-lived phase. Ten miles later, Dolce has forgotten all about barking at nothing.
As creatures of comfort, we all have special rituals and/or habits that brings us small pleasures. From sneaking a piece of sinful dark chocolate to a cherished cup of coffee, it’s the little things that bring us bliss. Simple joys that give us that drawn out “ahhhhh” moment. It’s a cold beer after a hot day. It’s grabbing a warm blanket and settling into your favorite chair in the evening to watch some TV. It’s fresh sheets as you climb into bed, curling up to sleep.
We all know there’s nothing better than nature fresh, clean sheets. Crisp, cool, clean sheets – how many of us stretch and sigh as we slide between the covers? Rolling into the perfect position as we lay on our side of the bed and close our eyes. How many of you fluff your pillows and arrange them just so? Who among us rolls first to the left and then on to their stomach? Or do you sleep on you back, arms above your head, knee bent? Are you a left sider or a right sider?
We humans get pretty territorial when it comes to which side of the bed we sleep on. Some want the side closest to the bathroom. Some want the right side just because that is what they are used to. And some want next to the side closest to an electrical outlet for their alarm clocks and landline. In our household, either one of us is lucky enough to have a side.
When you have dogs, dogs who consider the middle, bottom and your down pillow as their side of the bed, we’re lucky to have a corner of the blanket and three square inches of mattress. There are two sides to each bed and Dolce and Amore have ownership of both. There is no left or right side, only a Dolce or Amore’s side.
Both girls like to climb on the bed for a little night-time loving as I prepare to go to sleep. Dolce especially loves to curl up against my legs as I absently scratch her ears, her head draped across my thighs. Amore will troop cover the covers and pillows as she heads to the top of the bed to get her share of rubs. Ten minutes later they are off to other parts of the house, only to return in the wee hours of the night to take over the bed, staking their claim on the mattress.
There are times when I ask Malcolm to call the dogs so I can have some leg space. I beg him to give me ten minutes to enjoy the bed to myself before he lets the girls in.
“Let me get settled and then they can hop up,” I plead. Without his help, I’d be curled up into a cramped ball, while the dogs sleep diagonally across the bed, paws in the air, taking up all the space.
But still, we let them up on the bed. It’s a special time for me to give love and comfort to our girls. My special ritual. My special pleasure.
The other day on facebook, I ran across a video of James Stewart and Johnny Carson. In it, James Stewart reads a poem about his dog.
And, now you know why Dolce and Amore have their side of the bed.
Swish. Swosh. Swish. Swosh. Click click click click. Click click click click.
The subtle sounds vibrate through the house as Dolce and Amore ramble in and out from the pen. Swish. Swosh. The first sound is the dog door flap as it swings back and forth. There is a gentle cadence in the sway of the heavy plastic protecting the entrance to the house. Swish. Swosh. Swish. Swosh. Two dogs in. Two dogs out. The click click click click clatter comes later, as they move further into our residence.
Throughout the day, Malcolm and I tune out the swish swosh as the girls come and go. The sounds blend into the audible buzz of our household. The hum of the refrigerator, ticks of the clocks, birds cawing, cars that drive by. White noise that doesn’t even penetrate.
In our sub-consciousness, we know Dolce just came in from the pen. Swish. Swosh. Coming through for a drive by to check out what’s going on, Dolce swings through the kitchen first before going to the water bowl and on to the couch. As we hear the slurps of her licking up water, somewhere in the back of our brain we tell ourselves to add fresh water and ice to the bowl. We listen to her grunts and sighs as she settles into a comfy position on the sofa. We hear all this as we continue with what we’re doing. We have become so use to the background melody Dolce and Amore make, it has become an echoing beat in our minds. A little song that plays over and over. A part of our everyday life we don’t even notice. White noise we won’t even hear.
“Where are the girls?” Malcolm will ask. “I just heard them go outside,” I’ll reply. I chronicled the swish swosh as an exit. It’s an unconscious, sightless audit I do, taking inventory of the girl’s actions.
During the night, Malcolm and I register the acoustic swish in our sleep. It’s part of the sounds our minds filter out as we slumber. It’s immediately followed by little clicks as their paws hit the brick floors. In our sleep, we mindlessly track them as they wander through the darken house. Click click click click. Followed by another set of click click click click. Never loud enough to fully wake either one of us, never annoying, it’s a calming presence that blankets us with warmth.
Dolce especially has turned into our protector. She likes to sleep just outside the dog door, guarding the entrance. Amore likes to sleep on the cool bricks at the foot of our bed, chaperoning her human folks. During the night they take turns as they roam through the house, securing the premises. Click click click click. Even in the depth of sleep, I hear the clicks as they defend their territory. Patrolling. A small moan is heard as our canine sentinels settle back down to sleep. All is well in their world.
Many believe white noise is like radio static. Disturbing, irritating, abrasive. To Malcolm and I, white noise is music to our ears.
You ever feel like it’s never-ending? Like it’s one thing after another and it just doesn’t stop? Such is our life. This summer it has been one thing after another. Just when we get one dog healed, the other decides she wants equal attention. Just when we pay off the first vet’s bill, we rack up another. Just when we think things are calming down, it’s safe to stick our heads out of the hole, life throws us another whammy.
Earlier this summer, Amore flipped her stomach. The vet gave us a choice of emergency surgery or to euthanize her. Amore breezed through her ordeal and Malcolm and I both thought we had dodged the bullet. Two days later you would never have known anything was wrong other than a shaved belly.
A month later Dolce pulled up with the same symptoms. Again, we thought we had dodged the bullet when we were reassured her stomach was stable, but the vet thought we needed to check out her back leg. In layman’s terms, it looked like she had torn her ACL in her left hind elbow. We brought her home and made an appointment with the surgeon.
Malcolm and I are big proponents of ensuring quality of life for our dogs. When we took on the responsibility of caring for the girls, we accepted this. We took a big gulp, sucked it up big time, and headed into repairing her leg. July 24th. It was a Friday. The vet planned on keeping her a good, solid week to keep the leg protected and give it a good start to heal before she would be able to come home. Once home, she would need to be crated for six weeks. Yikes! We knew she wouldn’t like that, not one bit. We dragged out the crate from the garage, dusted it off and made room in our bedroom for the unsightly, huge thing in anticipation for her home-coming.
Our vet, Dr. Gruda, called late that night to give us an update. Dolce came through just fine. She had a few pins in her to stabilize the leg and she was groggy from the drugs but over all she was doing good. We planned to pick her up the following week. The next Friday, Malcolm hadn’t even made it all the way home with Dolce in the car when he had to turn around and bring her back to the vets. Halfway home he noticed some bleeding from her incision. Dolce was going back to the vets.
Nine days later, we were able to bring our baby home. Yep, she had to wear the collar of shame. 
Yep, she had to be crated at all times. And, yep, our life was hell. Dolce hated the crate, just as we suspected she would. She whined, she barked, she whimpered.
When Malcolm brought her in for her two-week check up, x-rays showed the pins had slipped and her little bone was broken. She was going back under the knife. We have no idea what happened, just that her six weeks of crating had just been extended and another surgery was needed. By this time, a month had passed. Scar tissue and healing had occurred hiding the pins. Dr. Gruda was working blind as he plated the break, repinned the joint and sewed her up. X-rays revealed she still had one pin in her joint and it had to be removed. A third operation was needed just days after the second one. They say the third time’s the charm and this time it was. With Dr. Gruda’s blessing, we kept Dolce at the vets for two weeks, almost three, just so she would heal.
September 11th, late in the afternoon, both Malcolm and I went bring Dolce home. I sat in the back seat to keep her calm in her excitement to see us. This time, her incarceration had been 18 days and she was done with the vets. She was stick a fork in it done. She wanted home, she wanted us. Even though we had visited her on weekends, even though there were other dogs to bark with, even though she had vet techs she favored, she wanted outta’ there.
Straight into the crate she went, only to be released to be fed and to do her duty outside. Always leashed, always under control. We could walk her for about 10 minutes for a little exercise but other than that, she was in her padded cell. For two days, all was well. The third day, hell broke out.
Malcolm and I had to run into town late afternoon that Sunday. Dolce had her brief walk, she was fed and watered and back in her crate. We quickly took our leave. We were only gone two hours, when I opened the back door upon our return and was greeted by two happy dogs. WTF? Dolce wasn’t suppose to be out. Son of a bitch! I checked the crate and found it still latched but the front gate was bent. The little shit had squirmed through the bottom of the gate to freedom. Immediately we grabbed some strip ties to re-enforce the seams and bottom. That worked for one more day. Twice more she escaped. 
There was no way we were going to be able to keep Dolce in her crate. She was not going back in. She was outta’ there.
I texted Dr. Gruda: We have a situation. Dolce has broken out 3x’s from crate. Please advise.
Dr. Gruda: Bring her back. We’ll keep her for another two weeks until her leg has healed well enough.
Me: On our way.
We are on day four, ten more and she’s outta’ there!
“Don’t you ever run out of D & A (short for Dolce and Amore) stories to write about?” friends often ask me. Even Malcolm will question, “how do you remember all the things Amore and Dolce do?” I think to myself, of course I remember the silly antics of Amore and funny things Dolce does. They’re my kids. My brain goes into mother mode and takes a memory snapshot of their canine shenanigans. I mean, hello? Have ya’ not been reading along here? Dolce and Amore never fail to deliver. Those two are always up to something.
I equate all this to coffee. Something is always brewing. And we have lost more than one coffee filled cup to a swish of a tail or a head lifting muzzle.
The funny thing is, the girls understand the importance of coffee. The start of their mornings evolve around my first cuppa Joe on to Malcolm’s reheating the coffee pot a few hours later. The girls know they will get fed directly following my early morning stumble out to the kitchen to turn on the coffee maker. They eagerly trail behind me as I make my way to the counter and push the start button. They hear that loud beep and they take their places next to their individual feed stands, ready for deliverance. Their breakfast comes after my coffee. Oh yeah, coffee is a big deal to them.
I’ve always enjoyed my coffee. When I was a kid, I remember being told to drink it black. Straight up. No fillers. Leaded. I took that to mean only wussies put cream and sugar in their coffee. Back then, we didn’t have Starbucks in our lives. Skinny Lattes and Cafe Mochas were never heard of. Our choices were limited to Folgers and MJB. Sometimes Sanka (uck!). If you worked in an office, Farmers Brothers was your only option in the employee lounge. Juan Valdez was our coffee god.
Coffee is my social hour. I savor the dark rich brew as I enjoy the early morning hours prior to leaving for work. Me, Dolce and Amore cuddled together, as I read the morning news. I savor my friendships as I join my BFFs on weekends for a small respite from the dogs, catching up on what’s going on. I savor the enjoyment of a special brew after a special dinner on the town. Winding down the conversation before we pay, leave and head home to Dolce and Amore. One last moment of a perfect meal someone else prepared.
I learned to appreciate coffee even more so when I had an opportunity to spend several weeks in Brasil. Coffee harvesting is extremely labor intensive. Hand-picked, those little beans eventually end up in a football field sized brick floor, sorted by color and hand-raked with brooms into rows for further processing.  And, those hardened hands that picked the beans only make about $5 a tree as they pick their way through the orchard. Since then, I have never questioned the cost of coffee or the price of a Starbucks.
Dolce and Amore get pretty excited once Malcolm is ready to get going for the day. The hours between me leaving for work and Malcolm arising from slumber, leave them eager for company. The girls have learned a different beep with Malcolm. Malcolm is usually left with a cold pot of coffee that he will nuke for his morning beverage. The two minutes in the microwave is when they get the Malcolm Morning Meet n’ Greet. From the first beep of starting the microwave to the final beep announcing the nuke job is done, the coffee hot, the dogs get their morning love from Malcolm. Two minutes of rubbing, scratching and love. Yep, Dolce and Amore understand the importance of coffee.
So, as long as our household doesn’t run out of coffee, I won’t run out of stories about the dogs. However, I do confess, I have, at times, resorted to stealing hotel room coffee packets for our emergency stash.
Last night a dear, dear friend died.
Greg Murrey died while doing what he loved the absolute most. Attending a Braves game.
I remember the first time I met Greg, was at a Braves ball game. I had flown into Atlanta to see Malcolm and Greg wanted to treat us to a game. It was August and it was hot. Typical Atlanta. I remember walking out the airport and immediately started to sweat. The night of the game, Greg put the top down on his Corvette, cranked up the radio, and drove us to the ball field – game day had started.   Wind tossed and glowing profusely from the humidity of Hotlanta, I was a bit cranky, a lot grouchy and definitely not looking my best, and still Greg accepted me, befriended me, and loved me because I loved Malcolm, his friend. I considered Greg a friend from the moment my then long hair snarled in the wind as we shouted over the radio. He was the kind of guy you just instinctively liked. You wanted to sit at his table. Greg is the one who taught me, any inning after the ninth is considered free baseball. And we all know, everything is better when it’s free.
A year later, I catered a dinner for San Francisco Giant’s Pitcher Dave Dravecky and received a signed baseball as a gift of appreciation. I promptly sent the ball off to Greg to add to his collection as I knew how much he loved the game. In the years since, I have forwarded on more signed memorabilia. Signed balls from Dodger Sandy Koufax and Royal’s outfielder Willie Wilson are now in Greg’s line up. Baseball was the common thread in which I had met Greg and now he is tossing those baseballs I gave him throughout the years, around with baseball’s finest in his own field of dreams.
When I sent Malcolm off to Vegas for a well deserved mini-vacation this past April, Greg’s hand was raised the highest to join up with him. Along with another member of the buddy gang, Greg and Malcolm spent four days enjoying life. It was a trip filled with good food and good times along with a little Jerry Seinfeld thrown in.  Cubans, Cognac and a Craps table rounded out the Vegas adventure. Friendships don’t get any better than this. And Greg was a good friend. One of the best.
Greg was like a brother to Malcolm but closer. He was like family to him but even closer. With over 45 years of friendship, Greg and Malcolm had bonded in Junior High School running track and carried their close friendship throughout college, marriage, babies, jobs, and life. Their bond of friendship was unbreakable. Though separated by over a five state span, they talked and emailed across the miles constantly.
Greg was there when Malcolm and I married, standing at the altar with us as we whispered our vows. Greg was there when we lost our nephew Sam, standing by Malcolm’s side to prop him up in our time of grief. Greg was there when we had to put Tiamo down. Knowing how the sharp barbs were piercing our hearts, Greg stood with us in understanding.
Today, Malcolm and I have to stand alone without our friend and it’s heart wrenching.
I just learned the flag is at half-mast today at Turner Field in honor of Greg.
May the breeze be gentle and the sun at your back my friend, as you look down on the game. God bless.
Meet the girls!
Two of the most beautiful and very spoiled Bernese Mountain Dogs, whose adorable, funny antics will bring chuckles and smiles and sometimes a few tears as you read their tales. True stories, hilarious escapades, and entertaining dog adventures, all chronicling their heartwarming and humorous capers, along with their playful frolics that often times land these fearless canines in the dog house.
Touching and tender, amusing and comical, these moving narratives and snippets of their lives impart bow-wow wisdom and show the loyalty and love between man’s best friend and their human care givers.
In the wake of social media and networking apps came selfies. A high angle shot held steady by a selfie stick or an arm stretched to the high heavens, selfies are designed to appear casual and natural. No airbrushing, no photo-shopping, and more importantly, at no cost. Selfies exaggerate the size of ones eyes and minimize any double chin you may be working on. The appeal of selfies came about from how cheap and easy they are to create and share. Almost instantly. The best part is the control they give the self-photographers over how they look.
It’s safe to say Kim Kardashian is officially People magazine’s queen of selfies. She has legitimately earned the crown by taking Twitter, Instagram, and other just-click-here media outlets very seriously. She even has her own set of selfie rules she adheres to. Not a day goes by without some comment, tweet or article rambling on about Kim’s latest picture post. Well, move over Kim, there is a new bitch in town.
It didn’t take long for selfies to cross-over into the canine world. Doggie self-portraits are popping up all over the internet in dog blogs and pet sites. Pup pics, pooch Polaroids and puppy photos are filling up Instagram and Twitter accounts. Pinterest is over-flowing with dog selfies. Do a quick google search on mutt mugs and thousands of images of Fido selfies can be found.
The selfie trend took hold right around the time the girls were born and Amore jumped on the Instagram craze like a house on fire. At three weeks, Amore took her first selfie. A shy peek-a-boo portrait with big puppy eyes and paws. 
Next came her pensive selfie. Two months old and she already knew her good side.
As Amore aged, her posturing adapted to her personality. Her selfies emphasized her crazy, the photos defining her complex individuality.
The selfies continued.
 And continued.  Amore went selfie happy. No photo went unposted.
She had only one rule. She had to be front row and center in the picture. She didn’t share film or credits.
Snow only brought out more opportunity for snapshots.
To our dismay, our cute little Amore had turned into a selfie slut.
Bernese Mountain Dogs are an old breed. Amore and Dolce’s long ago ancestors were once used as all-purpose farm dogs. Originating from Switzerland long before the time they were recognized as a purebred dog, Berners were used as watchdogs for guarding property and to drive dairy cattle long distances from the farm to up to the alpine pastures. And, they were considered great draft dogs. One of their most essential historical tasks was to transport fresh milk, cheese and other farm fresh produce for small farmers pulling carts and small wagons containing the wares to market. 
Bernese Mountain Dogs were bred to haul small drays. Like a cowdog’s first instinct is to herd, nipping at the heels of cattle, Berner’s have a predisposition to want to push and pull. Their deep barreled chest and strong upper body strength gives them a solid muscle pack to push against a harness. 
When Tiamo was a youngster, she started to push her way between our legs, usually from behind. Similar to her forebears, she would thrust her shoulders against Malcolm or my lower limbs, her head slightly down, her front paws digging into the ground for traction. If you were ready for the intrusion, Tiamo would continue to press through, gaining a neck rub and an ear scratch as she emerged on the other side. If you weren’t on the ready, tragic tumbling could befall.
We first thought this was some sort of game with her. Her canine way of getting some extra lovin! We came to realize Tiamo was doing what she was bred to do – to push against a harness, to pull her freight. Our legs were her harness. We toyed with the idea of cart training her. We had grand thoughts of her hauling our groceries, or maybe even us, to and from the store. We nixed that thought pretty damn quick. The cost of equipment and training gave that idea an abrupt death. Add the image of another large thing to store and gather dust in the garage and Malcolm and I dropped the cart notion like a hot potato.
To her dying day, Tiamo loved to push between our legs to petting victory on the other side. She always won.
Her heritage lying deep in her heart, Dolce has the same innate desire to push. In the last couple of years, Dolce has started the same game of pushing between our legs from behind and coming up the victor with scratchin’ and rubbin’ as she pokes her head through. Dolce considers it her duty, when she can make Malcolm or myself move forward ten feet or more. It’s her role even if she gets us to travel less. No matter, she still gets her reward of lovin’ for a job well done.
Berners are a breed that has served for generations as helpmates and faithful canine companions. They are considered working dogs and need chores to feel useful to their owners, to have a purpose, to feel important. For Dolce, the labor is in the pushing, the challenge is in moving one of us forward, and the reward is some well deserved lovin! 
Excuses.
We all have ’em.
Riding shotgun besides a blatant lie or perhaps a gentle apology, they line up in the corners of our brain, ready to be put to use. Some are old standbys. Some are reality. And some are just shameless whoppers. We have the famous ones such as, ‘not tonight, I have a headache’ or ‘I have to wash my hair’. Along side of those, we have the “I’m sick, I can’t come into work” ones. All in all, excuses are disguised as justification, a feeble attempt to absolve our guilt at doing or not doing, something.
Excuses are issued to grant us a little wiggle room, when we just can’t verbalize the true words. They pave the way out of saying what we really want to convey. Our exit clause. In realty, excuses keep us on the hook, wiggling around like the worm being cast out to the fish, wondering if they’ll bite.
I can remember when my sisters were just starting their families. As the babies came, one by one, so did the excuses. They weaseled out of more dish duty and kitchen prep work with one baby excuse after another. They were either feeding babies or tending to their bath time. Putting them down for bed time or setting up Finding Nemo for the little ones to watch. Always at the precise time of dinner clean up. Not married and with no incumbents, I suffered dishwater hands for most of my young adult life. But not any more. Nope, now, I have my own cop-out.
Every so often, Malcolm and/or myself find ourselves presenting our own excuse. A standby that is now our reality. The words ‘can’t’ and ‘unfortunately’ creep into the conversation when we offer our necessary confession. The words like ‘not tonight’ and ‘the kids’ pepper our cover story.
I call it the Dog Excuse. We have two of them.
The first one is utilized when Malcolm or myself, absolutely do not want to perform. And by perform, I mean attend a B-list type party, dinner or soiree where we pretend to enjoy ourselves, where we bluff our way through convo’s and feign delight at being a contributing factor to the event. This is when the dogs come in handy as an attempt to save us. When they are our excuse to be excused. When we happily say the word ‘can’t’ and ‘not tonight’ cuz Dolce and Amore need us at home. This is when the no-go turns into a no-show.
Our other rationalization is airtight. It is also our sum and substance of our lives. If we want a mess-free house to return to when out and about, we have a four to five-hour window of absence before canine chaos hits the home front. This dog excuse releases us out of whatever agreement and/or obligation we are in the middle of. This is where I now joyfully get out of KP duty. Somewhere around the four-hour mark of being gone, Malcolm starts to get antsy, making noise it’s time to get home. Time to check on Amore and Dolce, making sure they haven’t caused any additional mischief. Time to make sure the house is intact and sound. Time to make tracks for home. Leave or be left with mayhem. This is when our time-to-go turns into gotta-go. Now! By the fifth hour of our truancy, Malcolm is in the driver’s seat, revving the engine, tapping the horn at me, to hurry and get on the road. Our dog excuses said, we leave to attend to our life’s choice – two beautiful dogs that need us at home.
Life with dogs means exonerated whitewashing, circumspect cop-outs and plenty of canine cover-ups. What’s your excuse?
There are times when Malcolm and I really wonder about the dogs. Seriously, Einstein they are so not. That’s not saying Amore or Dolce are dull as dishwater or as dumb as dirt, they definitely have personality. But there are times when their lack of intellect shines way too brightly. Maybe I should have said, their lack of awareness, with their head-in-the-clouds wool gathering. Both dogs have a tendency to be a little bit of a ditz. Both have a susceptibility to be slightly unaware of events. Both are a little spacy and a whole lot of space cadet. That’s not to say Amore and Dolce don’t have moments of smartness or acts of cleverness. It’s just, these moments are usually overshadowed by their propensity to be totally oblivious to their surroundings.
On one hand, it adds multiple chuckles full of humor to Malc’s and my day. Like the day when Dolce was barking at a dog that wasn’t there.
Dolce is our traveling watchdog when we take the girls in the car with us. She sits in the middle of the back seat, head scrunched down to study the countryside. Eyes alert, tracking left and right, she scrutinizes the walking trails on the shoulders of the road, waiting to call out her find. When she spots a dog and owner on the hike n’ bike path as we drive by, she lets out a rowdy clamor, claiming dibs on spying the other canine first. The larger the dog, the louder the bark.
It so happens, about the time we cross over the RR tracks on our main drag, there always seems to be this one dog, an Airedale, walking with its owner. We pass by them enough times that Dolce is constantly on the lookout for them. Ready to be the first to hit the buzzer. Ready to bark. A month or so ago, we were driving towards home, when Amore blocked Dolce view (deliberate or not, we’ll never know). Dolce, so intent at being upset with Amore, forgot all about the upcoming railroad tracks. Until she heard our tires thump thump over the parallel tracks. By the second thump Dolce was in a barking frenzy as she was sprawled out in the back. When her head popped up to finish her spiel, she realized there was no dog, no Airedale, no human. Nothing walked the trail but a gentle breeze. Totally oblivious there had been no one on the trail. Her embarrassment took over, as her yelps quickly puttered out. Yeah, we got a good laugh over that one.
On the other hand, we (okay, maybe it’s just me) fret and worry over their absent-mindedness, their inattentiveness. Like last week when Malcolm was walking the girls at the Galisteo Basin.
If Malcolm and I were to describe ourselves as parents, I would be the worry wart. The one that takes all the safety precautions. The one that harps on Malcolm to leash up the girls. The one that errs on the far side of caution when it comes to Amore and Dolce. Malcolm on the other hand is the easy-going parent. The dad that is always reassuring me that they will be just fine. Leave em’ be. They need to run off their excess energy he tells me as he unhooks their leashes. That being said, when Malcolm walks the dogs, he usually doesn’t harness and leash them. I’m mostly ok with that, as the Galisteo Basin is fairly empty of other hikers during the work day. I mean, how much trouble could they get into, right?
Last week was no different from any other day at the Basin. Malcolm let the girls take a twenty yard lead as he started out on the trail. About five minutes into the walk they both came running back up to Malcolm as he trailed behind, hopeful for a treat. While Amore was hugging his wake, Dolce took over the point position. She was maybe fifteen feet or so in front, happily dog-jogging along, stopping every once in a while to sniff out what was new in the neighborhood, when Malcolm heard a loud buzzing. There was something in the back of his brain that screamed danger. Malcolm calls it his reptilian brain coming forward. In any case, it was a noise he had never heard before, but he instinctively knew. He grabbed Amore from behind him and bellowed at Dolce to come. Whether it was his tone of voice, or if she, for once, decided to obey his command, miraculously, Dolce ambled back to Malcolm, totally oblivious to any threat. Right there, in the middle of the road, not two feet away from where Dolce just was trotting along, was a rattlesnake. Mean, coiled and ready to attack.  
Dolce had no idea she was literally inches to being bit. She was in her own little world, enjoying life. Didn’t even see the blasted thing. Didn’t sense it, hear it, or see it. Scared the be-jebbies out of Malcolm. Scared me just hearing out it. Rattlesnakes are no laughing matter.
It’s true that God protects children and animals. I’m thinking someone upstairs was watching over Dolce that day.
Flip flop. Yup. That’s all it took. A quick flip-flop.
From the moment we brought Tiamo into our lives, we knew there were some risks. There were ‘things’ to look out for. Large breed dogs characteristically have a higher tendency to have bad hip and shoulder placements. Bernese Mountain Dogs especially, have a higher rate of having cancer. And there was the dreaded and deadly stomach twist, something our vet had informed Malcolm and I to be aware of.
Berners’ typically only stay in our lives 7 to 10 years, their longevity is much shorter than other breeds. Malcolm and I vowed to love Tiamo every minute, every day, we would be lucky enough to have her in our lives. Every day would be a blessing.
When Tiamo passed, we were heart-broken. Our hearts did a tragic flip-flop turning upside down, inside out. We understood the hazards, knew the uncertainly of her life span and were still willing to take the gamble that maybe she would be with us for seven years, or, if we were lucky, ten. We would take whatever the creator gave us.
When cancer took Tiamo’s life, we became even more vigilant with Amore and Dolce. I am constantly checking for swollen lymph glands. Malcolm and I are attentive in watching for limps of pain from their hips or shoulders. The slightest sign of discomfort, not eating, or an abnormally of behavior in either dog will put us both on alert.
The girls have certainly seen the inside of the vet’s clinic more than enough times.  We’ve been through two shoulder surgeries (Dolce), a stuck bone in the throat that required surgery (Amore), a swallowed rope, almost requiring surgery (Amore), another swallowed bone, more surgery (Amore), grass splinters in the throat, only a local needed this time (Amore), the plague (Amore), cactus spines in the paw (Amore and Dolce) and more. For as many times as we’ve taken the dogs to the vet’s, Malcolm likes to joke that we have bought and paid for at least two F-250’s that Dr. Bob likes drives. We know we have, at the very least, financially helped build his new clinic.
With each vet’s visit, it’s a hit to our wallet. Canine health care isn’t cheap. Each surgery lowers our saving’s balance. Ka-ching!  Each time, Malcolm and I examine how far are we willing to go, willing to spend, and willing to do. Our biggest concern is whether or not the surgery or procedure will continue to bring quality of life to the dogs. Will they suffer if we do, or if we don’t, do something.
What we learned is we will do anything when an emergency hits. As we all know, emergencies only hit when you least expect it, usually at night or on a weekend…..
Our night was progressing like normal. I arrived at home from work at my usual time. The girls were fed their dinner before Malcolm started our evening meal. I set the table, Malcolm was at the stove, Amore and Dolce were watching for fallen scraps. When dinner was ready, Amore laid down by my feet, Dolce behind Malcolm’s chair. All normal occurrences.  Then about an hour later, I noticed Amore started to get agitated. Whinny. Making noise. Acting weird.
“What’s going on with Amore?” Malc asked me as he walked into the room.
“Don’t know. Something’s going on with her,” I answered as I observed her strange behavior. “I’ve been watching her, but can’t figure it out.”
“What do you think?”
“Ah, it will probably pass, it usually does. She ate all her dinner and I just saw her drink some water. She’ll most likely be fine.” Eating dinner and drinking water are good signs.  She’d be all right.
“Well, let’s just watch it for a while and if she’s still acting up in the morning, we’ll take her in”
“Ok.”
Only it wasn’t okay. Ten minutes later both Malcolm and I instinctively knew something wasn’t right. We knew not to wait. Some sixth sense told us to take her into the ER Vet Clinic. Now. Not twelve hours later. Not in the morning. Now.
Thirty minutes later, the night-time ER vet told us we either do surgery now or she’ll need to euthanize Amore. Amore’s stomach had twisted. Flipped-flopped an 180. The vet needed our consent and Amore needed to be prepped immediately if going into surgery. Time was critical. What were we going to do? We had no time to analyze the situation. No time to assess. The vet explained the consequences of surgery. Amore had a 40% chance of not surviving the surgery. Without surgery, no chance at all.
“How much is the surgery?” The question had to be asked.
“Depends on what I find when I go in, how bad the stomach flipped and twisted.” Dr. Mourano replied. “Best case scenario, around $3,500, worse case would be $5,500. Then there is after-care. Maybe another grand or so.”
Both Malcolm and I gulped in a quick breath. Tears flooded my eyes, running down my checks. I turned to Malcolm. “I’ll get a second job, I’ll work weekends!” I sobbed. We can’t lose Amore.” Malcolm’s eyes told me he felt the same. We would do whatever it took to save Amore.
Malcolm turned to the vet, “do it!” he ordered. We would worry aboût how much it would cost later. For now, our worries were concentrated on Amore making it through the surgery. For now, we worried about how much contamination was done to the stomach, how much collateral damage was done to her spleen, if they could keep her blood pressure from dropping, and we worried if her heart would make it though. Ten p.m. turned into midnight as we waited in the empty lobby while the techs were keeping up posted on her status. By one a.m. Dr. Mourano ventured out to the waiting room in her scrubs. Her smile answered our fears.
“Amore did great!” were her first words. “Her spleen was intact and still attached, and there wasn’t any damage to the stomach lining that needed to be cut away. I tacked the stomach down so this won’t happen again.” All I felt was relief as she launched into the surgery specifics. I heard phrases like, “you were lucky you brought her in when you did”, and “her blood count is rising to where we want it”. The rest was a blur. Amore’s flipped-flopped stomach had flipped-flopped my mental state all to hell.
I had to be up in four more hours for work. I had a huge meeting I was chairing four hours after that.  I didn’t care, Amore would be okay. Our family would be okay.
At five p.m. that next day, we brought Amore home. She had over thirty staples and had to take all sorts of pills and medication. She had three of her four paws shaved for IV’s and hook ups during the operation.  She looked like a poodle. She was on soft foods and no running, jumping or getting excited. The drugs kept her sedated for five days.  Our little girl was not her usual self.
A week later Amore started licking her incision. We tried the collar cone only to find it chewed and ripped up in the dog pen, so we safety pinned one of Malcolm’s t-shirts around her torso and back for tummy protection. She loved it! We had our Amore back.
We might be digging out of debt but we wouldn’t be digging a grave.
Football is a given in our American culture. It ranks fourth on the list behind apple pie, hotdogs and baseball. However, it’s not a sport I ever imagined our girls liking, let alone enjoy playing. I’d like to know when our dogs became such footballs fans. And, I’d especially like to know when they became such good defensive linemen.
Take Amore for example….
Like her offensive counterparts, her defensive linemen dog approach lines up directly on the line of scrimmage, close to the ball, or in her case, the closest available human. Good defensive linemen dogs are big, strong, and alert. They are quick to react to the snap of the ball or movement of her human and can get up field to jam up the offensive blocking scheme in a nano second.
If it’s a run play, she’ll play a good gap defense and make the block using whatever moves and dexterity she has in her arsenal to get to the quarterback, i.e., Malcolm and/or myself. If it’s a passing game, Amore will disrupt the timing of the throw or try to make either one of us hesitate just enough to make her play. And just like that, (finger snap!) Amore’s block is a success.
in uniform, ready for action!
Her first tactic is to walk right besides us, usually from the right side of the field. Pacing her paws in time with our gait and with a slight increase in speed, Amore angles her whole body across our path. Shoulders down, paws wide apart, Amore comes in for the interception. She puts her all into a full body block to interrupt our field play.
Amore plays the game of football in the trenches, going nose-to-nose with our knees. Her mission, rushing one of us and stopping the running path directed up the field. Her goal, stopping Malcolm for a 30 second time-out for some extra love and petting. She knows she has scored once Malc starts to rub her sides and shoulders.
And then there is Dolce….
She plays more of a defensive back position. Rather than blocking us, she likes nothing better than to defend against pass plays by covering Malcolm and/or myself from completing the play. In a rushing situation, Dolce’s job is to contain the human either by forcing one of us out-of-bounds or by tackling us herself. Dolce is the last line of defense for a walk-block and pet, especially if Malcolm or myself have gotten past Amore.
Her fave blocking technique is to come from behind, swoop in between our legs, and lift the back of her head up to our crotch. It’s a guaranteed ball block with a 90% guarantee of interception. Her odds of a loving pet are high enough that the bookies in Vegas give her a 21 point spread against her opponent.
Her tackle is assured if I have a skirt on. Less so with jeans. Once we’ve come to a full stop to give her a rub behind the ears, Amore joins the fray for her share of scratching.
So the next time you’re watching a football game, keep your eye on the trenches. Underneath the dog pile you just might see Malc or myself calling foul!
There are times when something happens that just can’t help but send a smile to your world. When you see something that dispenses a little amusement to your day. When that same something, for a short amount of time, brings a chuckle, a LOL, or sometimes a LMAO thought. Throughout the day, you grab that smile, that chortle, that bit of laughter as a happy diversion for just a few seconds.
My bit of “something” came about early in the morning as I was driving into work. I was weaving my way through the back roads trying my best to by-pass those damn law-abiding citizens that drive the speed limit. While I was able to maneuver around most of them, there was one pesky Subaru in front of me hovering just under the posted limit. Pendejo! I swore under my breath. It’s not like there are many cops on the road at seven in the morning. There were enough curves and mole hills on the road that prevented my passing. Enough residential cross-streets that kept me in line behind the slow-poke. All my Prius wanted was to get around him. Leave him in my dust. Yeah, baby, eat my exhaust you old beat up Forester!
The lone driver came up to a three-way stop. I watched him leisurely look both ways as I sat behind strumming my fingers on the steering wheel in irritation. Could he not decipher there wasn’t any on-coming cars? We live out in the country, it’s not like this is LA traffic. There is no traffic. Com’ on turn right, turn right, turn right, I chanted. My destination was taking me left. Son-of-a beach, if that bastard didn’t turn left. Ugh! I didn’t even bother to look for any cars as I followed right behind. He couldn’t have taken the turn any slower.
I swore, I cussed, I invented new words and gave them attitude. This idiot in front of me was driving me crazy (pun intended). I was starting another rant and rave, when a furry head popped up in the Subaru’s back seat. I tracked the canine go from the left side of the back passenger seat to the right and back again, it’s tail wagging happily. I was close enough behind to see the furry ears at high mast, and no, I wasn’t tail-gating. Not really. The guy was going slower and slower, making me do the same. The large dog in the back was getting more and more excited. I could tell it was a Retriever. It ping-ponged back and forth in the back seat.
Ah ha! It dawned on me the driver in front of me was taking his beloved pet to the dog park that was a quarter-mile up the road. My second rant came to a screeching halt as his left blinker came on (for the first time, mind you).
That Golden Retriever, so excited to go play, pacing to n’ fro in the back seat, had figured out his owner’s intent. My eyes followed the Retriever’s movement. In my mind, I could hear the joyful barks coming from the car. I could feel it’s happy energy as the canine shared it’s delight at going to the park. I laughed to myself at the antics of the dog. My indignation at having to obey the speed limit melted into giggles. I silently forgave the Subaru.
This was my “something”. My smile for the day. My chuckle. My LOL. It’s no secret, I’m all about our dogs, Amore and Dolce. Y’all have figured out I love to write about the lives and antics of the girls and the joy they have brought into Malcolm and my lives. But that morning, watching that Retriever ping-pong back and forth in anticipation, gave me a joy that lasted all day.
Sometimes, it’s not about our dogs at all.
If It Falls on the Floor 