The lady and the mister are having a little, um, difference of opinion about the backyard. The lady loves plants and green things--okay, she will admit that she does prefer sort of untamed-looking spaces to what she calls "manicured plots." The mister loves basketball, so much so that he wants to build a basketball court in the backyard. With a big pole and hoop. Cemented into a big concrete slab. Because "the kids need to be able to practice their 3-point shots." For this to happen, a very old cherry tree, a hibiscus, and a small flowerbed that the lady planted when the girl and boy were small will need to be removed so that concrete can be poured...on top of the grass, and moss, and life that is now "backyard." And backyard is not very big to begin with--it is a city backyard after all. The lady says concrete is very hard to get rid of when you wake up and realize you now hate it; hence the term "concrete." She says maybe big flat stones? The mister says the trajectory of the ball would be affected when it landed on stone corners. Today the mister brought me into the discussion, which is why I feel compelled to weigh in. He told the lady that I would like to have a basketball court in the backyard. Honestly, I don't know what he was thinking when he said that. I am nothing if not earthy. I do not like the way my claws drag and scrape on concrete. When we walk, I veer to the grassy strips, away from the sidewalk, and when we go to the park, I never run to the basketball or tennis courts. I head to the field, the grass, the mud, in search of olfactory delight. If the mister asks for my vote, rather than trying to give me one, I will vote no concrete. A pond, however, now that's something I could get behind.

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Oh happy day--we have sunshine here today. The lady has promised to take me someplace fun--she made sure to clarify that it's someplace I think is fun. Because last week she took me to a not-fun place--and the week before too. But who's counting. I can smell the vet from a block away, and even though I make it clear to the lady that I do not intend on visiting the vet, she pulls me out of the car and into the clinic anyway. Where they try to bribe me with cookies before they poke me and look at my teeth. And I think to myself how can this possibly be a good thing? Last week, they poked me with something, and when I  woke up both my wrists were shaved and my teeth felt funny. And they tasted different. And for the rest of the day I felt weird. The lady wrapped a blanket around me and brought me cream cheese--oh, epiphany! Looking droopy and shivery equals cream cheese. Sorry to leave so abruptly, but suddenly I'm feeling a little peaked.

Yesterday was this kind of day in Seattle. I took the lady and the mister for  a walk anyway, though. It's good for them to get out. The lady had to bang her umbrella on the ground several times during our walk to get it to go right side out. She hurt her back several days ago--which makes her mutter things she won't allow the girl and boy to say--so we've been doing short walks, and then we go home, and she sits on the heating pad and makes the darndest things. These are for children to wear on their fingers. Seems like the rest of their hands will still get cold, but she hasn't asked my opinion. Another recent creation, yep, seamonster earrings. These are meant to go in the holes people poke in their ears. 'Nuff said? Anyway, it seems to make her happy, making these things. And she does often hide cookies all around the house to "give Amos something to do" while she makes stuff, Dog bless her. She's a good girl. I'll give her a rest and let her make more things . . . as long as she keeps up the occasional cookie hunt.

So, I'm still waiting by the phone for those calls from people looking to give the evil monsters cats a new home. In case you've forgotten about the cats, I'll post a couple more photos of the marvelous creatures.

He always sits like this, like someone most in his comfort zone on the couch with a bag of chips and a liter of soda.

And her with the spooky--I mean luminscent--eyes.

As you can see, they're excitedly waiting to hear about their new opportunities. We needn't bother the humans with this--I'm allocating time in my schedule to handle all adoption proceedings. I look forward to hearing from you.

I've developed what the lady calls "a slight trepidation"--like that word?--around very small humans. She tries to understand it, but I do catch her giving me a baffled look when she sees my reaction to them. And she sometimes says, "You never used to be afraid of them. You're bigger than they are." Well, she's bigger than a lot of things I've seen her shy away from, snakes, for example.

The truth is that small humans are unpredictable. And the older I get, the more unpredictable they get. I seem calm by all outward appearances, and so they react by going all squirrely, trying to climb on me, following me around, pulling on my tail and ears. And they shriek--kinda like the lady's teapot--going all squealy for no discernable reason. They didn't used to do that. The lady thinks maybe because when I was younger, I was jumpy and playful, so they were nervous. Now the tables have turned. I hear them coming, and I chart a different course. The lady can just deal with it and detour with me. Self-preservation is not a bad thing. She can change direction with me when a small human appears, and I'll do the same for her when a snake appears. And I won't poke fun at her, although, really, you oughta see her. She's like 5'10" and wears heavy boots. A snake wouldn't stand a chance.

Oh boy, it's been a long time since my last post. Looks like my guest blogger only blogged once. If I were a human I'd make some kind of judgement about that and maybe call her a slacker--but since I'm a dog, slacking is not a term I use. What humans call slacking, I might call being. I can be philosophical, you see. So anyway, I hope everyone who reads this had good times together during the bring-the-tree-into-the-house season. We went to Montana. Lots of trees in Montana.

The lady and I would live there if we could get the rest of the people to follow suit. The lady loves the stars. We both love no leashes...and the space...the quiet...the smells. She doesn't love it when I roll in my favorite smells, though. Go figure. Humans are an enigma.

Amos is not feeling up to blogging today. He's suffering from a severe attack of arthritis, so I've agreed to be his guest blogger for the day. I found Amos on petfinder.com when he was tiny and fat. (He prefers that I use the word "chubby," as he feels it has a more respectful ring to it.) I'd been trolling the site for weeks, sending pictures to my husband in an effort to convince him that our children needed a dog in their lives. Well, when I sent him the picture of this little silvery speckled guy amidst a passel of black puppies, he hopped right on board and suggested I contact the shelter. So I did, and we had a friend watch the kids while we made the two-hour drive to Bellingham to pick up this sweet surprise guy for our family. (My husband has since said, "really, wasn't he for you, Marc?") They had no clue, and when Amos popped his head out of the box we held out to them upon our arrival home, they jumped and screamed. (They would want me to say they didn't actually scream, but that they were a little startled.) At that point, he was not known as Amos, so we all wrote down a name we wanted for him. My husband found Amos in a baby name book. My kids chose Neville and Bone. I wanted Boo, because he was born on Halloween. We put the scraps of paper in a hat, shook them around, and Amos won--and so did we. I could tell all sorts of stories about his crazy and often destructive puppyhood (he prefers I don't), but I still feel that allowing your children to grow up with a puppy is a wonderful thing.