Three things.

I learned three things about Bo this weekend.

1. I learned that my dog - Brian's "vicious pitbull" - is truly, without a doubt, an absolute wuss.

Bo and I met his arch nemesis on the way home from the lake. Bo is always on the lookout for Big Boy, the neighborhood cat, but rarely does he get an opportunity to meet him face to face. But right then, behind a blue pickup, we could both see Big Boy before the big, black cat spotted us. Bo raced ahead to confront the beast once and for all, and I ran behind him, anxious to see what might happen. I had my doubts about Bo's courage in the face of such danger.

I heard a hissing noise and a loud whimper before I circled the pickup and saw the two pets. Big Boy was massively puffed, a great black furball standing stock still in the grass. Bo was a healthy three or four feet away, tail between his legs, looking sideways at the cat. Bo began running in a jolting circle around Big Boy, who stood his ground, and each time Bo moved, the dog let out a high-pitched, anguished whine.

I was doubled over laughing at my dog. I'd never seen him so frightened in his life, but he couldn't tear himself away from the cat. He maintained his distance, still trying to work up the courage to approach Big Boy, but with each move, he yelped as though he was being beaten. For a few more seconds I stood there in tears, then said, "Come on, Bo. Let's leave Big Boy alone." Bo finally followed me home, but his head hung low and his normally buoyant tail stayed between his legs. He remained so edgy that when I opened the mailbox, he jumped. Once inside, I told Brian about Bo's encounter, and it almost seemed as though our dog knew he should be embarrassed.

(By the way, I don't hate cats. I wouldn't have let Bo near Big Boy if I hadn't known that my dog (who still possesses his testicles, in fact) would have been on the losing end of the encounter.)

2. The next thing I learned about Bo is that he is, contrary to all of my boasting and pride, one of those dogs.

I'm too disappointed for many words right now. If dogs could understand lectures, Bo would have been duly ashamed when we came home from church. As it is, he probably won't understand why he winds up in the basement during our outings. Sigh.

3. Finally, I learned that Bo and I share a longing.

He wants a baby, too.

Or at least, he longs to decorate the nursery of his dreams.

The head tilt.

Completely selfish post. I don't expect you to think my dog is as cute as I think he is.

That would be like asking a nine-year-old to appreciate modern art.

Ha, ha! Only kidding, only kidding.

Anyway, for your consideration, a brief Tuesday Tale:

So I'm standing in the entryway and I look up to see Beau, regal as ever, staring down at me from the top of the stairs.

Fat rolls aplenty.

"Bo," I ask him, "are you hungry?"

Perhaps having not heard me entirely, he descends halfway down the stairs to understand.

"Bo, are you hungry?"

"And after you eat, do you want to go outside?"

"And play with Hannah?"

He carefully considered my proposal, then continued down the stairs for dinner.

Bo smells a scoundrel.

Brian and I may be the only people in the world who think this is cute and/or funny.

But let me tell you, you don't want to mess with this guy.



My favorite part is the way he pretends disinterest before leaping back onto the scene.

Beauregard Fitzgerald Montgomery Ward. Happy belated birthday to you, sir.

I like Brian and me, the two of us, our relationship, better, with a dog.

I'm sure Bo will have to take a back seat when the rest of our family decides to join us, but for now, he's our baby. We can bond over him. He's a story that I can tell Brian when he gets home from work - one of the only stories I can tell him about my day in which he is really engrossed. He laughs and comments. He pets Bo proudly.

Around four in the afternoon, Bo starts watching for Brian to come home. It doesn't matter that Brian won't be home for well over an hour. Any noise and movement at the top of the driveway is heralded loudly and I find myself running to the door several times to see if Brian's pulled in. When the Kia finally sweeps into its parking place, Bo spins endlessly in front of the door, making low, guttural noises, madly wagging his tail, and scattering the rugs and shoes all over the entryway. He bounds out when I finally get the door open and his entire body wags. "What's my Bo doing?" Brian asks him, crouching down to pet and play. Meanwhile, I stand in the doorframe to watch in pleasure the excitement of my dog, the way his ears pin back and his head lowers and he rubs frantically on Brian's knees before taking off into a "chase me" sprint. I used to walk out to the car to compete for a hug, but now, I know better. I wait until Brian makes it to the door after running around the car and chasing an exuberant Bo. When Brian finally makes it into the house, Bo bounds past us and heads for his toy box to find his rope. There's no one he loves to tug with as much as Brian.

In the evening, after catching up on the day's cache of Fox News Online, Brian climbs off the couch and lowers himself onto Bo's big pillow bed. He lays behind him and gives him a firm belly rub. Bo flips onto his back and squirms in enjoyment. "Come pet The Bo with me," Brian invites, patting the bed on the other side of our dog. I lay down and we pet Bo together, admiring him. I tell him just how cute he is, and Brian reminds him that he is also tough. "You're a vicious little pit bull," he tells him. "My little pit bull guy." It's at this point that Brian makes up songs to sing to Bo. I try to soak up these moments as much as I possibly can. I never thought my husband would be the song-singing papa, and I love it.

This doesn't get old. This won't ever get old. These child-free evenings will end someday, but I'm not going to rush it. I wanted to rush it before Bo came along. I wanted so badly to add something to "Brian and me". I wanted the romance of a family. At these times, Brian would gently remind me that we were going to stick to the plan. And we have stuck to the plan, and I believe we will, after all's said and done. But fifteen months ago, Bo came to live with us, and something wonderful happened. I didn't expect it, but I got my family.

Bo's birthday was on Tuesday. He is two years old, but still very much a puppy, ready to play at a moment's notice. I don't know what he was doing in the eight months before he was ours, but the job's he's done since he got here is monumental. Bo, you will never, ever read this, but thank you. I love you, buddy.

Wordless Sunday

Well, not exactly. I get a couple words.

Only this: never did I expect to see Duke and Bo cuddled together on Bo's bed. Literally, the lion laying down with the lamb, only in this case, the lamb is the mean one.

It might be the end times, here. I'm just warning you guys!

(Bo and Max, not such a surprise.)

A Picture That Makes Me Laugh

Brian and I were spending an evening with Bo, admiring his mass of wrinkly skin, his soft, hairy face, and his fat little tummy.

(Hmm. I reckon that comment would be disgusting if Bo was a person, not a dog.)

Anyway, in a burst of sentimentality, I grabbed the camera to take a few family photos.

"Make him sit next to you," I told Brian. "I want to get a few pictures of you two."

So Bo sat beside Brian and looked at the camera with his big boxer grin. And I pressed the button down halfway and allowed the camera to focus...

... and just then, Bo farted. A full, loud, human-sounding fart.

And we laughed, did you hear that?! And Bo's big boxer grin disappeared and a look of pained embarrassment came over his face and he turned to see if Brian had heard him.


Yup, we heard you, big guy.


Anyway, here are a few more captured memories.




Now I can take them off my hard drive.

Happy Thursday!

Poop!

Soon I’ll update you on the (non)success of Brian’s Neti pot. I actually meant to do that today, but I just got back in the house from my afternoon walk with Bo and I wanted to talk about that. Seems like I write so rarely about Bo, and it’s because I just don’t ever think I can find words to describe what Brian and I find so cute and funny about him. I’m sure part of it is the typical owner-exclusive love one has for their pet, and of course the other part is just that Bo is the best dog on the planet.

Anyway, Bo and I were greeted by an unusual sight today as we made our mid-day trip to the lake. Twenty geese or so, who usually taunt Bo as they swim near the shore, stood on the edge of completely frozen water, looking unsure of themselves. The lake hasn’t frozen over in the years that we’ve lived here, and sure enough, Bo instantly recognized that it was now possible for him to chase those geese as far as he wanted.

He raced toward the edge of the ice and the geese, very much alarmed, took flight and landed with several clacks in the middle of the frozen lake. I could imagine Bo crashing through the ice and so I demanded he stop. He screeched to a halt and looked longingly at the group of birds just walking around out there. Dismayed, he gave me an angry pout and turned away. He bent his nose to the ground and examined a pile of fresh goose poop. He took a long, fervent sniff and then, like a woman pressing a love letter to her heart, passionately lowered his upper body and gave a great roll.

“Bo!” I cried. He looked up quickly and stopped, but across his face was an enormous smile. Across his neck was a large green smear.

This was the second time in two days that he had done this. I suppose he must realize that it’s the coldest winter in Raleigh since, oh, 1843, and that I just adore getting soaked with the hose when I have to wash him off. And as much as he despises bath time, he hasn’t yet made the connection between rolling in poop and getting sprayed off with 33 degree water.

I told him to leave it and he did, but the deed had been done and his fate had been sealed. I returned to the house grimly, and Bo trotted ahead like a boy who’d just applied some sweet camouflage face paint and was off to play soldiers in the woods.

Once home, I collected the shampoo, leash, and towel while he continued to frolic. It was then, when he heard the hose turn on, that his energy was instantly drained. He fell to the ground and rolled onto his back, ears back, praying desperately. His tongue nervously licked his nose. I couldn’t help laughing, and I crouched down to rub his belly. “I’m not mad at you, Bo,” I said gently. “I just can’t leave that poop on your face.”

Oh, but he was a dying soldier, a fearful martyr, an abused child at the hands of the Devil himself! He blinked his eyes very slowly before closing them completely. He was very still.

He was perfectly pathetic.

I slipped the leash around his neck. “Come on, Bo,” I said. He picked himself up and slunk over to meet me. In less than a minute, I was finished and he bounded up to the deck, once again the ball of energy I’m used to. I heard him scamper above me while I rinsed off my hands and turned off the hose. I walked up the stairs, grinning, while he waited happily for me to towel him off in the sunlight.

As I rubbed him down, he pressed his head into my stomach and gave me a look of great adoration – almost as lovingly as he’d looked at those geese from the shore. I smiled back at this crazy mass of dog, this baby I’ve got.

And it was just another adventure of Maegan and the Bo-Dog.

But just look at the baaaaaby.....

I have rarely felt more pathetic in my life than on several occasions since becoming a pet owner.

Never before in my life would I have trudged through rain and layers of mud to walk a dog.

Never would I have thought I'd be one of those unbearable pet owners who schedule play dates and organize their schedules around the dog's napping habits.

Never would I think to miss Sunday school because I didn't want to coop the animal up in his crate for more than three hours.

Never, before Beau, would I have willingly and happily sorted through one hundred and twenty pounds of noodley chicken necks, wrinkling my nose at the smell of chicken juice-soaked cardboard and painstakingly disinfecting the tailgate of the truck after the trialsome process.

And never - never - would I have thought I'd stoop intently to monitor the consistency of his stools, then call my mother and my neighbor in glee, screeching, "GOOD POOP TODAY!"