A touching love story--guest blogger, my nephew Brandon

"I think we should get…HIM.” Katie said, pointing to one of the smaller poodles of the litter.

 
He looked like a blur of beige fur, like the head on a mop. I was still looking at the largest, shyest one, trying to convince myself that I’m right.

It's May 18th, 2013. Less than a month since we've successfully been married and honeymoon-ed. We're in Zebulon, Georgia, of all places, in what seems to be a puppy-mill in training. Katie is fixated on the one rambunctious pup that continues to do low-flying circles in the grass and dirt. He ends up being the only puppy of the ones present that seem eager to meet us.

As with most things -- Katie was right.

We named that little guy Amos, inspired by one of my favorite singer/songwriters, Amos Lee.

In the ten years since Amos and I became inseparable, Katie would be quick to remind me: One, I didn't want a small dog and two, Amos was not my first choice.

Again, she was right. It wasn't that I didn't want Amos. Growing up, we really only had large dogs (aside from Droopy). The only small dogs I was familiar with, were small, yippy, nipping dogs that were full of energy, hard to control and had Napoleon complexes. Amos was Katie's first real pet and dog, and she had her heart set on a toy poodle. I said: "Just so long as he doesn't have a poodle haircut." At that time, I thought talking her into getting a dog would be much much harder. Are you seeing a pattern here? I am wrong a lot. It’s a gift.

Not only was getting a dog her idea, but it turns out her first and only pick that day would steal our hearts.

Amos quickly became the center of our family. He was the star of Christmas cards, and the center of attention when friends would come over. He and I wrote songs together. He rode in a basket on Katie’s bike. Two years in, he would have to contend with the first born, Gibson and before that a new house. Then four years into his tenure, our second son, Nash Corbett. He kept a watchful eye over both of them as they grew.

He was the same, happy go lucky little guy for seven years. But in April of 2020, we knew something wasn't right with him. A week long stay at the vet would result in Amos' diabetes diagnosis. I was heartbroken. I was afraid this was the end. Our veterinarian explained that with care and routine, Amos could still live a full and virtually uninterrupted life. All that was required was a regimented routine of regularly spaced feedings and me becoming an insulin injection specialist.

Three years into Operation: Dog Diabetes yielded Amos’ next brush with pancreatitis. Thankfully, he recovered and with the help of our vet, he was back to being himself. Katie discovered that most dogs don't live much longer than a few years after their diagnosis. "Not Amos," I thought. By all accounts, he was the model patient and I the model caregiver. With Katie's nearly perfect record in the back of my mind — I shuttered to admit that we might not have much longer with our boy.

Dogs are the perfect companions. They love us unconditionally, and require very little of us. A head scratch, some treats, a walk here or there, a place to lay their head. Popcorn. Maybe a piece of bacon. Why not? While their love comes unconditionally, what we really trade is a little piece of ourselves. They accept us as we are. Deeply flawed, and hard to understand. And in return for that piece, they give us everything they have. Trusting us to protect and care for them.

Dogs are a little bit of us, and uniquely their own. They become a part of us. A piece of us and yet a beast that is untamable. They aren't people but they fill all of the gaps in our hearts that people can't. We leave, we come home late, we spend our days at the office, we send them to the vet to board for a week — and yet they are as happy to see us as ever. They sit with us in our quiet moments — while we repeat things to them, asking them questions in a language that they only feign to understand. Do you want to see the boys? Mommy's home. Do you want a treat? Do you want to go for a ride?

You have the photos, videos and key memories of them. What you can never duplicate are the quiet moments between you. You check on your kids, dog asleep at their feet. You come home late at night, he greets you at the door, loud enough to wake the entire house. A yelp, a bark in the middle of the day, as the mail truck passes. The sound of the doggie door. The quiet push of your office door, as he checks to make sure you're still there. The expectation that any time you try to sit down, or take a nap, your stationary legs make an excellent bed.

The decision to say goodbye to our Amos was the toughest decision we’ve had to make as a family. I have doubts. I have the regret that his last days were spent in a vet kennel and not at home. I I tried everything I could to hold on to him. I didn’t want to let him go. I would've done anything in my power to keep him with me — with us. But after these ten years, and everything he gave to us -- I couldn't let him suffer anymore.

In his last days, in addition to not eating and stomach issues, we found out that his heart had grown in size. Not only from our love, but from the beginnings of congenital heart failure. I looked into his little black eyes — cloudy with cataracts as a result of the diabetes. I no longer saw the young, bouncy, lively pup that we had known all these years. I saw eyes that were suffering — tired but could not sleep. His knees were worn from years of compensating on moveable knees caps. Knees sore from chasing the boys, jumping on couches, beds and up and down stairs. My heart, my head and my guts were all screaming that it was time. Please. Can’t I be wrong this time? Just one more time.

Before the doctors came in, he desperately tried to crawl to me, and lay his head against me. His breaths — pained, rapid and shallow. I haven't cried like that in my entire adult life. I held him close in his last moments and told him everything would be ok. That I would miss him and that I loved him.

Scott Van Pelt, in his 2022 tribute to his dog Otis, said this: "Nothing we do could earn what dogs give away to us for free." And: "If this hurt is the cost of the transaction, for being on the receiving of a mighty love that I got to know — I'd pay it again with enormous gratitude.” I couldn’t say it any better than that.

It is with the deepest hurt in my heart that I write this now. I can't begin to quantify in gratitude, and in love what I owe to our sweet Amos. I would gladly pay again and again, with the piece of me I gave, and the pieces now of my broken heart, just to have his head rest against my chest one last time.
If our lives are but a blink in the span of time, a dog's life for us is a blazing, beautiful shooting star. A shooting star where simultaneously a wish is made and a wish is granted. It is one of life’s cruelest truths — that we get to love them, caring for them and them us so deeply but that they live such a seemingly short amount of time.

It bears repeating. Katie couldn’t have been more right — about everything and especially Amos. I've never been more glad to admit that I was wrong.

Amos -- we love you always. The boys miss you. Katie misses you and said you can share her blanket. There’s not a moment that I don’t miss you. Thank you for sharing your brief, but beautiful life with us. I’ll hold on to your memory forever.

Indian Princess and Campfire Day--memories

My cousin in South Carolina sends out a weekly spiritual message to her friends and relatives and often closes with a "day" event, like popcorn day, or fly a kite day etc. I always look forward to what she has to say. Today she reported is "Campfire Day," so I looked it up, and it seems early August is a good time to sit by a campfire with friends.

 
But it made me wonder what had become of Indian Princesses and Campfire Girls (an outgrowth of father-son recreation and moral guidance by the YWCA in the 1920s), which my daughter and I (and her dad) participated in during the 1970s. I had a lot of fun strolling down memory lane with that one, like how we got our *first cat (see photo), the nice mothers of Tremont School I met, and the scary overnights at a camp in southern Ohio (forgotten the name).

After an extensive 2 minute search I learned that anything with the word Indian in the title is racist/colonialist/demeaning to native Americans so organization has separated from the Y. There are locally run organizations because daddy-daughter activities are still enjoyed and earning badges for service is still considered useful in building character and strong women. There is a local unit for the younger girls in my own community called Two Rivers Council (2 rivers, the Scioto and the Olentangy meet in Columbus).

 
"Two Rivers Council is a group of dads and daughters that strengthens that strong family bond through structured but casual activities - time apart from work and school to focus on family. During our time together, dads and daughters learn outdoor traditions, discuss current events, help out in our community, and enjoy our time in the great outdoors.
Our group includes Upper Arlington girls between kindergarten and third grade. Most of the girls attend Barrington with a few from Tremont, St Agatha, Wellington, and Columbus School for Girls. "Senior Princesses" in grades 4 and 5 are most welcome too! We take our Longhouse name from the two rivers that flow through Columbus: the Olentangy and the Scioto. The sun rises on the Olentangy and sets over the Scioto.

 
The Y-Indian Princess Program (now called Adventure Princesses) was an outgrowth of the Indian Guides, a father-son program started in 1926. That program enabled fathers and sons to participate in a variety of activities that nurtured mutual understanding, love, and respect. The first Indian Princesses came together at the Fresno, California YMCA in 1954. Today, as then, our program affords an unusual opportunity for the concerned and busy father to foster growth in his daughter's development and an understanding of the world around her. The father's role helps her in developing self-esteem, confidence with her peers, and appreciation for the differences among people and families."  https://tworivers.clubexpress.com/content.aspx?page_id=9&club_id=837212

*This is not our first cat, Mystery, born in 1976, but she looked like this.   I can't seem to find any photos of her on my computer.  In those days we didn't take photos every few hours. She was coal black except for a few white hairs under her chin.   We named her Mystery because she was so tiny when our daughter brought her home from an Indian Princess overnight with her dad at Camp Akita, her eyes were blue and we didn't know her sex. She was sort of sickly and the mother and all the other kittens ran away, but Phoebe caught her. Somewhere I do have a photo of her and the children with a carved pumpkin, so it must have been near Halloween. She got well and lived for 18 years. 

How do they do it?

As I returned from my 2 mile lakefront walk this morning, I had heard and seen a lot of dogs.  Two of the cutest were the labs, one black and one chocolate, tied at the bike rack and staring at the restroom door in the pavilion. Anxious for their person to reappear with her/his love, acceptance and snacks.  At the corner of 3rd and Poplar dogs in different houses, opposite corners, felt the need to arouse the household just in case I tried to invade.  Young dogs, old dogs, puppies, pretty, ugly and those in training.

But the ones who puzzle me aren’t the dogs necessarily, but my neighbors. She’s late 70s, and he’s in his 80s.  They bought the house across the street about 5 years ago after many years of renting, and they are delightful, helpful neighbors. She makes the most wonderful peach cobbler. She brings me books to read which she has enjoyed.  However, it is a small house and they have a lot of company.

In addition to their own dog, their guests have at least 3, I think.  Plus all the people, four of whom seem to be teen-agers—their grandchildren plus their friends.  Cars, boats, bikes, floats, towels, etc.

We’ve been alone since 1986. I think that much company and that many dogs (one year they had a chicken, and maybe a pet pig), is something one needs to grow in to gradually. Or God has granted them a measure of patience we don’t have.

As I returned from my 2 mile lakefront walk, the largest dog visiting my neighbors—looks like a cross between a standard poodle and Great Dane—began to bark.  It was about 7 a.m.

A lively blind rescue

I've been on two lakefront walks this morning, so I'm 4 miles good for the day. Noticed a lot of toxic white masculinity--roofers, carpenters, heavy equipment operators. Thank God for men doing the jobs women don't want. That wage gap is a total myth--feminists like to whine and compare salaries of part time baby sitters with engineers. Suing is a cottage industry in the grievance groups. Men had to give up private associations, but women didn't.

Also, stopped to talk to a woman walking a cute little white fluff ball dog--not a poodle, but the dust mop style. We stopped to chat and she told me the dog is a rescue. Her husband had died, and then later her dog. Because this adorable little piece of fluff was blind she was considered unadoptable, but the woman's other dog had been blind, so an exception was made. She's very lively--and although blind, she certainly can smell another dog and keeps her new owner on her toes. I think she said the rescue was Safe Harbor  https://islandshas.wixsite.com/ishas/large-grid

At the fitness center

 

I haven’t noticed any increase in traffic—must be fewer resolutions to exercise and lose weight this year.

About a month ago I mentioned a man I was watching who was having a huge struggle using his walker, but who wouldn’t accept help from anyone. It would take him about 5 minutes to get from the door to the rowing machine.  I would watch him each time I’d decide I really didn’t want to walk a mile on the Treadmill, then I’d keep going when I saw how hard he was working to build up his legs

Then one day I saw him taking a few steps without the walker, and then he stopped using the walker all together.  Another member told me his injury was from a failed surgery to fix something else.  Then this week he was hit and knocked down by a car in the parking lot walking into the building!  He came in and exercised anyway, but we both think the police should have been called.  The woman who hit him used the excuse she wasn’t wearing her hearing aids!

I met a woman at the fitness center around Thanksgiving who is really pleasant and attractive and in excellent shape.  She’s usually finishing about the time I arrive (which is rather early) and works somewhere nearby. She has 11 dogs, 5 cats, a pot bellied pig, and 4 horses and lives around the Johnstown area.  She says the pig is about 9-10 years old and is rather elderly for a pig.  She showed me his photo on her smart phone.  I haven’t seen photos of her grandchildren, but I know she has at least two.

Saying good-bye.

We lost our little "grandpuppy" Abbie, a fawn and white colored Chihuahua, on Thursday. She was 12 and died suddenly with no warning.  She was always the center of attention at family gatherings or with anyone visiting--she seemed to think they came just to see her. Our whole family is so sad. She usually came to our house when her people were traveling or vacationing.  Most recently she spent part of July with us. She would sit on our laps with her eyes glued to the window waiting, waiting.

Monday Memories--our trip to Illinois and Indiana

We left early Thursday October 5 to make a quick trip to visit the siblings. Due to various frailties, we did a lot of eating out--2 restaurants in Mt. Morris, one in Byron, and one in Indianapolis--which I'll probably notice the next time I step on the scale. 

Brother Stan and me at the new condo in Byron

Stan and Casey with the beautiful view from the deck of their new home

Sister Jeanie and the new puppy, Diva

Getting acquainted with Diva

Niece Joan showing off her new look (lost 86 lbs)

If you've lost a pet

A few days before our cat, Lotza Spotza, died, our son's chocolate Lab, Rosa, died. He says, "If you've lost a pet that was your life, I recommend visiting a local rescue, or a clinic that has resident pups. Does a lot of good. This is Noel..."

Son Phil getting some doggy love

We have a rescue--or does she have us?

I never saw my sweet rescue Calico at this age (photo from internet), but it's what I'll put in her back story, which is really an interesting piece of fiction about how she was abandoned and turned in at Cat Welfare in Columbus around 1998, why she wanted to eat garbage, how the tip of her tail got broken, and why she's flat footed. She had been dearly loved, and found us. Somewhere in her feline memory cells dwells an old lady who loved her, the first old lady, not me.

 

When the cat dies. . .

My husband says, no more pets.  But these little Pomskies are so cute.  A cross between a Pomeranian and a Husky. About 10 lbs. as an adult.  They are the newest designer dog craze, so it may be awhile for the problems show up.  They seem to be inheriting the best qualities of both breeds, but it's probably too soon to know.

http://www.petguide.com/breeds/dog/pomsky/



 

The turkey monster

Our cat has always had "issues" about food--she was abandoned and homeless, then dropped at a rescue where the other cats terrified her, then she found us--for 18 years now. For 18 years she's believed she will be put on the street and must eat. Obviously, childhood memories don’t go away with lots of love.  Yesterday I cooked up the turkey carcass, but my SIL had done such a great job of cleaning it, there wasn't a lot left for casseroles or soup. So I chopped up the bits of skin, meat and fat after straining it thinking I'd dole it out to Lotza over the week-end. She demanded the whole thing! This morning she slept until 5 a.m. (instead of 3) in a turkey stupor. Now she's turning her nose up at the canned Friskies turkey. She's just staring at me, which if you've ever had a cat, you know the look.

Cats like to stir the water in their bowl, so her bowl is very heavy and says, “Dog.” When she would spill it on the marble, we couldn’t see it.

This is her favorite napping spot. . . my husbands’ legs.  Once she moves to our bed, she likes to sleep on my legs. She’s really not very large, maybe 6.5 lbs, so she a heat seeker.

Other turkey/cat stories:

This is humor.  http://www.catster.com/lifestyle/humor-cat-behavior-turkey-thanksgiving-tryptophan

Turkey is not toxic. https://www.facebook.com/notes/aspca/animal-poison-control-faq-turkey/455486574631

http://www.darwinspet.com/our-raw-foods/our-raw-cat-food/natural-selections-for-cat-turkey/

Monday Memories—saying “I used to. . .”

"Lately I'm saying 'I used to’ a lot," my friend said while we were having coffee to catch up after our trip to Spain.  I'd heard her say it before, but I think it is profound. It made me think.  Yes, I say that frequently. At my age, there are many.

Here are some of my “used to” thoughts in no particular order.

I used to run. I think about that often now—didn’t occur to me before age 40 that someday I wouldn’t.  Oh yes, I knew I wouldn’t run when I was 80, but the need or desire just went away.  As a child I ran all the time, even when I didn’t need to.

I used to skip or take two at a time on the stairs. Sometimes I would run up stairs on all fours.  I know I was an adult because I was doing it on Abington Road where we lived for 34 years. And until December 2013, I would even walk up and down stairs for exercise at our Mill Run church.  Perhaps that’s why I have bursitis now. Even one stair is painful.

I used to go out every morning to a coffee shop. That habit started when I was a teen and ended in early 2014.  I knew I couldn’t have caffeine anymore, and drinking Panera’s decaf was like hot water, so I gave it up and learned to make decaf at home.  I began putting $2/day into the piggy bank for our trip to Spain.  I didn’t always remember to do it, but had about $600 when September 2015 rolled around. Favorite haunts in addition to Panera’s the last decade were Chef-O-Nette, Paul’s Pantry, McDonald’s on Rt. 33, Bob Evans on Sunday, and at Lakeside Coffee ‘n Cream. The regulars at the Chef used to have parties together, attend weddings and funerals. I could hardly start the day without them.

I used to go to work five days a week. From fall 1986 to fall 2000 I was the Veterinary Medicine Librarian at The Ohio State University.  Loved that job. The students were terrific, and the library was located on the far west side of campus, so I never had to fight the bad traffic. The field was fascinating, and I’ve remained interested in medical topics to this day as you can tell from my blog topics. It included research and publication, which I enjoyed. Blogging allows publishing without the middle man. But I’d had many jobs before that because I accepted temporary contracts before a tenured permanent job came along so I could be home with the children in the summers.  I’d worked in agriculture, Latin American studies, user education, and I’d also worked for a library non-profit (Ohio-net) and the State of Ohio (Ohio Steps) before returning to Ohio State, and in both jobs I did research and publishing.

I used to bake pies.  I used to call myself the 2nd best pie baker East of the Mississippi. Mom got first place, of course. When there would be a family event in Indiana or a church pot luck, someone would always suggest I bring dessert, because they knew it would be a pie.  But something happened, maybe 10 or 15 years ago.  The pie crusts just weren’t turning out.  And as far as I’m concerned, no crust no pie. So I’ve passed the family mantle along to my daughter, who not only makes wonderful pies, they are works of art.

My Sugar free apple pie from 2009

Chocolate Peanut Butter,  chocolate peanut butter cream cheese tart, Strawberry rhubarb, flaky pie crust,  apple sour cream, applesauce pie, raisin (sugarless), cheesecake pumpkin, onion pie, apple dumplings, peach fluff pie,    cheeseburger in paradise pie,

My daughter’s artistic pies.

I used to be a dog person.  Since 1976 we’ve always had a cat (Mystery, We Be Three, Lotza Spotza, who is now about 18). When I was a child we always had a dog around. Lassie. Lassie 2. Pretty. Brownie (or was his name Fluffy?). Zero. Jerry. Lady. Polka dot.  Lady and Polka dot were Dalmatians. Lassie, Pretty and Brownie were part collie.  Zero was a mixed hound who “followed” me home one day (with a lot of encouragement). We left Lassie at my grandmother’s when we went to California in 1944—he died in a tractor accident.

I used to be a horse fan. Now I just enjoy looking at them. I would spend my afternoons at the Ranz’ horse/cattle barn near our home, I would ride the horses of friends, and I was fearless.  The Wiggins children  had a blind pony which I would ride bareback along the hi-way. I would draw pictures of horses and write stories.  My brother and I would build snow horses in the yard.  I saved all my babysitting and paper route money and finally when I was 11 years old I bought a horse.  Got over it.

I used to draw and paint, both as a child and an adult. I probably haven’t painted anything in 4 years. Mainly I did watercolor most recently, but back in the 70s I did a lot of paintings using acrylics. When I was a child my mother would get rolls of discontinued wall paper for me to use, and provided stacks of used white newsprint from the printing plant in Mt. Morris. My grandmother gave me a box of oil paints when I was about 10 and gave me her old supplies.  I still have my wood box. Our schools didn’t have art classes, but one year my mother took a typing class in night school in Freeport, and I went along and took an art class.  I didn’t like it because I was the only child in the class and couldn’t draw horses.

Watercolor paintings from several years ago; I think these are studies done in classes I took.

Paintings from the 1970s when I used my children as subjects.

I used to not appear in public in jeans and athletic shoes. After I retired, I was always well dressed when I went to the coffee shop, then would change when I got home. Until about 2010, I always wore high heels with my slacks.  After exercise class I would go home and change clothes rather than appear in the grocery store in my athletic clothes.  Somewhere after 70 I decided that was probably wasted energy.  Now I can look as much a slob as other retired people.

I used to be a Democrat—for 40 years. I voted for George W. Bush in 2000 and haven’t looked back.  I may have been a Conservative for many years before since I am an evangelical Christian, was pro-business, and I was pro-life even as a Democrat. When my husband started his own business in 1994 I really had my eyes open, but it took awhile for that to translate to politics. That said, it still bothers me that Republicans are like bulls in a china closet, and can’t hang together to accomplish something or use a crisis the way the Democrats do.

I used to hate exercise.  Actually, I still do. But I’ve participated in an exercise class at church most years since I retired. For 2015 I’ve been riding my nice Power Spin Gold’s Gym stationery bike, and by doing just a mile at a time about 6 or 7 times a day, I’ve found something that doesn’t hurt my legs and yet is good cardio and burns calories. I’ve ridden 1500 miles since Christmas and lost 35 pounds in 6 months. I could say “I used to weigh 170 lbs.”

I used to sing.  About 9 years ago I decided to join the church choir. I grew up in a home with music and I missed that. I even sang in a little quartet with my siblings. Only one of us had the talent and determination to become a musician and it wasn't me, but I did take piano lessons and play trombone as well as participate in choirs until I graduated from high school.  At UALC in 2006  I just loved it thinking my soprano range would come back.  The director Mike Martin was wonderful. But the voice didn’t come back.  If you don’t use something for 50 years, there are penalties.  So after a year I gave it up.

A poetry prompt from Tweetspeak this week was on games.  So I chose Hide and Seek and worked in the “I used to” theme. I used to write poetry, but hadn’t done it for several years.

-----------------------------------------

Poetry prompt--games

Hide and seek, 1950 and 2015

I used to run through damp grass at dusk
Hiding behind fat trees--or in the garage,
Excited that the all the kids showed up at our house.

Now I scan the shelves for my car keys
Looking for my purse--it’s not where I put it,
Concerned that the dinner date is in fifteen minutes

We’re not sure, but

we think Lotza is between 85-88 years old in human equivalence.  She sleeps a lot, has a problem with stairs, loves the warmth of our laps (more than usual), and is deaf.

Cats (or my cat) and coconut oil

I keep a small amount of coconut oil in a pill bottle inside the top drawer of my bathroom cabinet.  It’s very nice as a skin moisturizer, or make up remover, or for dry skin.  One morning Lotza had a runny nose (always, actually) and I swiped it with a touch of the oil because it looked irritated.  Of course, she licked it off—and loved it!  Now in the morning she sits on the counter top waiting for me to open the drawer.  First, she goes after the tooth paste, which I use first; then my thyroid pill because I do that an hour before eating; finally, it’s the coconut oil and she gets a smear.  One day I made the mistake of giving her a small amount with lunch.  Oh, she thought she was in heaven, but about an hour later, threw up her lunch, and probably breakfast.  I tried it again the next day, and the same thing happened.  It might be good for her, she might love it, but it’s not good for cleaning up carpet.

http://www.thedrakecenter.com/blogs/risks-and-benefits-coconut-oil-for-pets

Friday family photo, Christmas 1982

Gabby Hayes was his nick name—his beard was coming in white but his hair was still red. The cat’s name was Mystery and she lived to be 18. After that Christmas I became the shortest person in the family.

A mouse in the house

Our cat is 16 years old, somewhat arthritic, and sleeps most of the day--but she was back to her roots protecting us last night, stalking and running--apparently a mouse is in the house. We live in a wooded area, and this time of year they sneak in when they can. The cheese was removed from the trap, but it didn't spring. We're not sure who ate it--the cat or the mouse. Sort of like watching politics, isn't it?

Coaxing the cat to eat

Our cat has stopped eating, so I took her to the vet, where I discovered she's only about 4.1 lbs even though she'd been eating well until Thursday. I turned down the expensive tests to find out why (she's 16), and asked for subcutaneous fluid and a few appetite stimulants. That has worked in the past when this happened (late summer, always at the lake house). Vet said give her anything to eat you normally wouldn't just to get some calories in her. So, this morning in addition to baby food she got some Häagen-Dazs ice cream and salmon meant for people. She'll get a little freshly cooked chicken and steak later--after she wakes up.

Miss Beazley has passed. RIP

“Miss Beazley’s arrival at the White House caused quite a stir, gaining international media coverage and her own appearance on CSPAN.

She, and a chagrined-looking Barney were the subjects of a 2005 White House video titled “A Very Beazley Christmas,” in which various politicians are smitten with the new pooch as Barney is pawed out of the limelight.”

Read more: http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/beazley-dog-george-w-bush-died-president-announced-saturday-article-

Cats stealing dog beds

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/10/13/jerk-cats-love-stealing-dog-beds_n_4093467.html

and trying to fit in boxes, jars, vases

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/08/22/if-it-fits-i-sits-supercut_n_3790622.html

Cat hair

Today I bought a "Fur Be Gone," a tools which is supposed to work on the carpet and the cat. Usually I just use a roll of masking tape. Anyone ever tried this?http://www.petbuddies.com/prod_details.php?cat=35&p=204

Green is for cats; blue is for dogs. I now expect pet tools to start appearing on my Facebook page and along the side of any page I visit on the internet; I’ve been getting ads for coconut oil since I blogged about that.