Wherefore...

Why is it that, with so many breathtakingly delicious fruits in season we can't even decide which to buy, my kids want to open a can of peaches?

Why is it that, even though I've made thick hamburgers from scratch, the kids would rather go to McDonald's? (okay, I don't give them toys just for eating, but still...).

Why is it that, with all the enticing toys and bones I've scattered around the house, Miss Puppy still wants to eat the furniture?

Why is it that, even though she has a closet full of really cute clothes that I'd borrow if I thought they'd fit, Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile wants to wear the same "Little Miss Sunshine" shirt over and over and over and over...?

Why is it that every time I try to make my bed I bang my instep on the bed frame?

Why is it that whenever I go to a restaurant I end up seated at the table leg?

Why is it that I vividly remember every single embarrassment I've ever inflicted on myself (and there have been M*A*N*Y), but I can't remember what I had for breakfast?

Why is it that the "v" key on my laptop keeps falling off and I hae to reisit eerything I write to make corrections?

Why is it that, just when I'm completely exhausted and ready to go to bed, I get some brainstorm for a blog post I absolutely MUST write so I won't forget it tomorrow?

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My Dog Can Afford A Personal Trainer

We have a nine-month-old Tibetan Terrier puppy; we got her last summer a couple months after our Bichon Frise died. I thought I must be nuts for getting another dog so soon, as I'd had the entire summer to be gone all day without having to let anyone out to go to the bathroom. It took a while for her to grow on me, especially since she was so mouthy that I'd routinely wear her hanging from my arm like a bracelet; my neighbor commented that my forearms made me look like a cutter. Robespierre was pretty good with her but Cleopatra was terrified and with good reason -- the dog had an abiding fascination with our ankles and most of the time when we walked her we resembled a klutzy version of Riverdance.

When I got my first dog nearly twenty years ago I'd never had any pets other than fish, and except for when one of the fish jumped out of the tank and flopped around on the carpet, subtracting a good ten years from my mother's lifespan, they were about as exciting as actuarial tables. I was thrilled to have a dog, but I knew absolutely nothing about them; not only did I do everything in the book wrong, I even made up things to do wrong. Naturally, the Bichon and her younger half-sister were profoundly spoiled and ill-behaved. It's a good thing they were so cute and lovable or I'd have had to kill them. Bianca, the older one, never saw any meaning in housebreaking, and her tummy was so delicate that she threw up every morning, usually on my bed. It got to the point where I'd recognize her "hep hep hep" noises, and even in deep sleep I could grab her and run to the bathroom, where I'd put her front paws up on the toilet rim and she'd very cooperatively throw up in the toilet. To be fair, though, when I was pregnant with Roby and threw up at least once a day for thirty weeks, Bianca would camp out at the bathroom door with a worried expression; I told myself she was concerned about me, but actually she was probably just jealous that I got to lock myself in the bathroom and play with the roll of toilet paper.

So when Violet came along I swore I'd not make nearly as many mistakes, so I found her a personal trainer, Mr. Don't-You-Dare-Call-Me-Dog-Whisperer. He comes to the house and trains her to be a dog and me to be an owner. Now, instead of getting the "You Need to Exercise More" lecture from my own trainer, I get the "You Need To Exercise Her More" lecture from hers.

Will it work? Darn well better. I'm running out of shoes.