Rosie, Get on Board

This is the story of a dog, and a special one at that.

A rescue dog, sent to rescue a family who, in the past two years, has lost a dog, two cats, a frog, and, a little girl.

Addie.

Addie, the animal lover. Addie, the little girl with big plans. To be a vet (with summers off, of course). To rescue animals both tame and wild. To foster dogs like the ones she read about in Ellen Miles' Puppy Place books. To work tirelessly for animal rights, much like the officers she saw on the TV show Animal Cops Houston, which, by the way, she watched religiously.

Addie, the advocate, who convinced her friend to mix up some sweet lemonade with her one summer day and sell it and send all the profits to the Humane Society.

Who prompted an entire community to get out and give big to the Humane Society in the days following her death.

So, when it came time to get another dog - and, let's be honest, that time came a little bit sooner for the boys than it did for mom and dad, we knew we wanted to adopt one from the Humane Society.

We just didn't know Addie would have a hand in picking her out.

Here's the story:

As we were getting ready to go on a hike in Colorado, I dug deep into the pockets of the diaper bag, searching for the bottle of sunscreen. What I found was this:

A little in-church illustration Addie had made to pass the time. I'm sure it got shoved in the bottom of the bag, along with the church bulletin, half a dozen Matchbox cars, and Tripp's supply of Cheerios. And it chose to surface on that particular day, which, I know, doesn't seem like a big deal. But it is. Because just that week I'd run across a dog - named Rosie BTW - on the Humane Society's website.

Cut to July 31 and Isaac, Tripp, Landry, my mom and I walking out of the Humane Society with this little gal (not before sending a quick text to Scott that said something like "oh yes we did").

So, like I said: this is a story of a rescue dog sent to rescue us. And I'd like to wrap up the story all nice and tidy and end it right here.

But I can't.

Because there have been days when I've wondered if Addie was playing a big, fat joke on us.

Days like these:

Landry's learned how to string two sentences together since
Rosie's arrival. "Ro-Ro, no. Cage."

Not to mention escape attempts 1, 2, and 3.

Imagine my surprise when I locked Rosie in her cage, took Isaac, Tripp, and Landry into town for all of 30 minutes only to return to a Beagle's nose pressed up against our living room window. A good blogger would have taken pictures of this as well as the mangled cage, but I was too busy cleaning up No. 1 and No. 2 in my bedroom.

I guess that's not really an escape attempt, huh?

Then there was the string of counter-jumping incidents, complete with broken dishes and a shredded Pringles can.

Here's the loaf of bread she retrieved from our pantry. And sampled.

And then there's the fact she hasn't exactly been Scott's biggest fan - even though he's the one who feeds her and walks her every morning. She howls and growls just about every time he walks through the door. And Scott's resorted to howling and growling back.

But I think she's coming around.

In all seriousness, Rosie is a great dog, and I do believe she was meant to be our dog.

Thanks, Addie, for giving us the nudge and always reminding us that "animals are people too."

Just Fore Fun

How I ended up playing in a two-person golf scramble on Tuesday night is beyond me. It started with a text that went a little something like this:

"Hey, just checking to see if you want to tag along at golf tonight. Ride in the cart. Maybe swing a few. Or meet up later."

It ended with me toting around my husband's clubs and tossing around terms like eagle, bogey, and, regrettably, slice.

I sliced a lot.

And I laughed a lot too.

Which is good for the soul (and particularly good for a battered one).

So I want to thank those who encouraged me to take up this new sport.

And let my husband know that I totally get it now.

Not golf. I'm not sure I'll ever get that - or what the deal is with all the clubs. Seems a little excessive (as I opted to only use three, maybe four of them).

But I do understand that spending time on the golf course helps him deal.

And it really is peaceful.

Until someone yells, "Fore!"

Which, by the way, I never had to do.

What Do I Have to Lose?

Do you hear that?

No.

Well, I do.

It's the sound of my post-baby weight loss grinding to a halt.

I've been denying it for, oh, a week or so now and hiding from it in yoga pants and long-ish tops. But a couple of weeks ago there was no getting around it as I wasn't getting into a whole lot of anything as I tried to pick out something to wear to Isaac's Christmas program.

Outfit No. 1: Denim skirt, plum shirt (it's actually a pajama top, but shhhhhh, don't tell), a scarf, and tights. That's right. I said tights. It gets better. I had the pleasure of a running commentary from a certain 5 year old and 3 year old while trying on this particular ensemble.

"Look at mom's underpants!" Tripp exclaimed.

Let me assure you there is nothing special about my unmentionables. Or funny either. It's just the word underpants is hilarious to a 3 year old.

And then there were the tights. The control top tights. I'll spare you the details of the acrobatics I had to perform to get into those puppies.

"What are those?" Isaac asked.

"I think they're pants," Tripp whispered.

Isaac didn't appear to be convinced.

And I wasn't convinced this outfit was going to work. At all.

Outfit No. 2:  Pre-pregnancy jeans (now I'm just a glutton for punishment), mustard maternity top, black jacket, and scarf. By now the boys were bored, so yeah, just me celebrating the fact that I got into the jeans. But, just because you can get them on doesn't mean you should wear them. That was definitely the case.

Outfit No. 3: Maternity jeans (hangs head in shame), mustard maternity top, black jacket, and scarf. Notice I always have a scarf. Always. Scarves have always been a staple in my wardrobe. Fashion gurus say they add visual interest. Right now they're acting as camouflage for the mid-section.

You know what else can camouflage a little postpartum pudge? A baby. And you better believe I was workin' that.