Hathy Holithays!

In a shout-out to "A Christmas Story", Wyatt pays homage to Randy (Ralphie's little brother), whose winter dressing also didn't allow for much movement:

Randy: I can't put my arms down!
Mother: Well... put your arms down when you get to school.

Hathy Holithays!

Hugh Does Joe Look Like?

Ok, when something happens once, it's like an accident, an aberration, a single incident never to occur again (duh, 1 means 1). But when something happens more than once, what does that make it? Or when something is said more than once, what does it mean? That it's the truth? That it's likely? That it's a certainty?

Well, get this folks. On more than one occasion (making it NOT an aberration), someone has commented to Dina or Joe that Joe looks like Hugh Grant. I'm sorry, did you say Joe? The Mexican/Filipino/but supposedly Chinese Hugh Grant? Now, I understand if Joe looks like a famous Korean actor (as he was told when he last visited Korea), or that Joe is Latino (as many people, including a nice abuela, mistook him for by speaking Spanish to him), or that Joe might be Laotian (hairstylist said so), Cambodian (by folks in Cambodia speaking Cambodian to him), or Filipino (as my cousin Taylor still believes him to be), or Hawaiian (too tan to be from the mainland), or that Joe is from any other country where the people are remotely tanned...
But Hugh Grant. Really people?


I don't know folks, but my dog eyes just don't see it. Well, I guess may be...if you squint real hard...it could possibly be...seen as...a little resemblance...to this?:

Wedding Crasher

Move over, Owen and Luke. I found a new wedding crasher. Sure, he only weighs about 6 pounds. Sure, he's smaller than the smallest hobbit. But this guy's got game. He's only a month old and homey already crashed 2 weddings.

Wedding #1: Age, 2 days
That's right folks. I got put in doggy camp that weekend, but Master Wyatt got to crash his Uncle James and Auntie JoAnn's wedding 2 days after his birth. The little guy wasn't even invited! Heck, the little guy wasn't even supposed to be born until 4 weeks later! But no siree, he's not one to miss a party and hog some of the glory.

Wedding #2: Age, 1 month, 1 day
This one was black tie!! But do you see Lil' E in proper clothing? No way. The dude attended wearing what HE wanted to wear, cried when HE wanted to cry, and demanded to be fed when HE was hungry (limiting his Mom's ability to consume alcohol, thereby making no friends whatsoever). The gall! But make no mistake...The ladies were lining up for him!

But let's hope as he gets older, Lil' E waits for actual invitations and generally learns some manners. I did hear from a very good source that the little guy was ripping some mean farts at the black tie dinner -- he claims he can't help it, but que rude!!!

QT with Lil' E

The jury is still out as to how I really feel about this little guy. On the one hand, he smells pretty good and looks like he could be a good source for dropped food someday. On the other hand, he wakes me up a lot during the middle of the night and looks like he might smell pretty bad someday as well.

Until I figure the situation out, I'm putting up with his insistence on spending QT with me (and I like his body heat).


P.S. Wyatt's real due date is today, 10/25/06. So much for that!

There's Always Time For Fun

In case you were wondering whether Wyatt's arrival has impeded Dina's ability to make me do stupid stuff, guess again.P.S. Thank you, Aunty Di, for knitting Wyatt this cool hat. Unfortunately, it fits my head better than his right now.

Family Update

In case you were wondering how we are all getting along......We are getting along just fine.

Sound the Horns! The Little Emperor is Here!

Introducing my new best pal/arch nemesis:

Name: Wyatt David To
DOB: September 28, 2006
TOB: 9:43 AM
Weight: 5 pounds, 2 ounces
Length: 18 inches
Hours of Labor: 12 but less than 30 minutes of pushing
Number of times Dina yelled at Joe during labor: 0
Number of times Dina hit Joe during labor: 0
Who cried first: Joe

Guest Blog: One Week to Freedom!!!

It's official. I only have one more week of bedrest (can you hear the angels singing)! I'm so excited I could pee on myself. Well, not really. I'm so excited I could pee on you, maybe, but not me. The doctor told me that once I hit 36 weeks, I'm off bedrest (mark the date, that's September 27th). And I can't believe by the end of this, I'll have been on bedrest for 7 weeks total (ok, not a lifetime, but that's like almost 2 months of my life where I've basically laid on my side for 23 hours each day. You're suprised I didn't shoot myself -- or Joe -- but I'm not allowed to get up to retrieve firearms. I'm only allowed to get up to pee and shower -- oh, and take the occasional photo.).

What has been cool during bedrest is how cool everyone has been. Friends have come over to help me pass the time, brought DVDs, food, sent books, the whole shebang. And that's really cool, because it's totally unecessary. On the flip side, I'm also surprised by some of the people who have not called or stopped by (you can see their names on my shitlist in bold, all caps).

But this last week is moving painfully slow. Now that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I'm getting more and more anxious. Watching my dog perform a lobotomy on a stuffed bear is no longer as entertaining as before.

Other than hearing angels singing, all I can hear is the inevitable scolding when Lil' E gives me some lip "I did not spend 7 weeks on bedrest for this bullshit! Now go to your room!" Payback's a bitch.

Gimme Yo' Cookies

I'm a hungry doggie. Joe and Dina brought me home at 5 pounds. I now weigh 26 pounds. I can't help it. I love food. You already know that I love peanut butter. But I also love rice (I'm Cheanglinese, remember?), cheese (just plain ol' American slices will do), bread (particularly foccacia), ice cream (I've only had vanilla), and my newest most favoritest thing in the whole wide world? Joe-Joe's Cookies from Trader Joes (vanilla, not chocolate. Chocolate will kill me.).

Gimme, gimme, gimme. I will stalk you if I smell even a crumb of one of these cookies on you. No seriously, I don't care if you're an infant, elderly, disabled, or pregnant. I will step all over you for a cookie. I will stalk you. I will hunt you down. With Joe, I don't have to wait long. He just takes off half of the cookie, and I get the cookie part, he gets the other half with the cream and cookie. But Dina, what a wench, she makes me work for it. She'll split the cookie, lick the creme off in front of me. Do a little Joe-Joe cookie dance, swinging it by my nose and over my head, sing-songing a la Rod Stewart "do you want my cookies, do you think I'll let ya, come on baby let me know." I climb on her, I jump on her, I even drool on her, and she still has the nerve to tease me with them! All I can think is what comes around, goes around, my pregnant friend...what comes around goes around...

P.S. For those of you worried about the increasing junk in my trunk, Joe got word this week from my vet that he should 'keep an eye' out on my weight. Needless to say, I'm now being starved, limited to 2 cups of kibble a day, and only low-fat doggie snacks. What's happening to my life????

Guest Blog: Tales from the Bed by Dina

Answers to common questions:

How are you?:

I am essentially a prisoner in my home, but I'm allowed to eat whatever is in the fridge (right now, there are Costco chimichangas and french bread pizza). Kind of like bubble boy (or girl, I guess), except I can't run around outside in a smaller bubble built to my proportion that still serves as protection from all the harms of the world. Oh, and my first kiss wasn't plastic, poor John Travolta.What do you do all day?:

I'd like to say that I've read every single parenting book needed, or every classic (including Dickens), or even watched all the DVDs in my Sex and the City collection (like me, that DVD collection is still wrapped in plastic). Instead, please meet my new best friend:
This, my friends, is the Nintendo DS Lite. And if I were you, I would keep these very very far away from my children, especially adolescent boys who will ruin their minds and never get into college (and certainly not the number one university in the country) as addiction is certain and my only excuse is that I'm 34 and already got into and went to college. Of course, I might have gotten into college but I will likely be a horrificly unprepared parent since I can't manage to pick up anything remotely looking like a parenting book because my hands are occupied with the Nintendo.

How much longer do you have to stay on bedrest?:

Your guess is good as mine. But in a couple of weeks (when I will have officially been on bedrest for 5 weeks), I'll email you for your signataure to my electronic petition for Dina's freedom.

How is Joe handling all of this?:

Who the hell cares? Joe gets to wake up every day and leave the house!

(Ok, I should be a little more generous. Joe is taking it like a champ. Mostly because I think guilt overpowers him, as he's watching his pregnant wife (yes, folks, we all know that Joe did this to me -- not put me on bedrest, but you know, got me pregnant!!!) lay on her side for 23 hours a day. But we all know Joe's a good guy. Of course he's taking it like a champ!).

How are you feeling feeling?: (translation, are you emotionally stable?)

Generally, I'm taking it like a champ, too. As far as pregnancies go, I've had a great one. As far as blips on the pregnancy screens, this one has turned out not to be major (just a major inconvenience). And really, as long as the baby is healthy, that's all I really care about.

Ok, let's step away from the party line for a second (of course the priority is the health of the baby, what do you think, we're sick-os?). But let's take a Type A personality who 1) has a baby on the way; 2) is moving into a new house; 3) is overseeing the renovation of that house; and 4) requires near-daily exercise for her sanity's sake, and put that Type A on bedrest. I would, in my most PC way, just like to say that while I've been shockingly optimistic and positive about all of this, I've been damned salty, too.

What gets me is when I talk to people, most people ask "how is the baby?" Peeps. The baby is fine. As long as the baby is in the belly, the baby is fine. But how about asking me how I'm doing? Really, people aren't actually that interested in how I'm doing. I'm really just a pod. Just the outward shell that will be peeled away at some point to reveal a miraculous beautiful baby boy. And I will be there, still a shell, but this time, a fat saggy shell with engorged breasts and grown-out highlights.

But as long as the baby's healthy!!!

Shower Dina with Love

So the baby (whom we have named the Little Emperor, but we call him by his hip hop name, Lil' E) is coming soon. Very soon. So soon that I think his head is still pushing towards the exit door, which is why Dina is still on bedrest. And so it's supposedly a cause for celebration (not Lil' E's anxious run towards the exit door, but just the imminent arrival of his majesty). Happy new baby, woohoo, and all that jazz.

So Dina's girlfriends threw a shower. Dina, of course, is still on bedrest, so she laid on a chaise lounge like an empress (which sounds about right) and I had to wonder why they didn't hire a cabana boy (or Joe) to fan her and feed her grapes during the party. Dina was pretty excited to see her friends, who told her what it is like to walk around outdoors, breathe fresh air, and you know, generally how it feels not to be a prisoner in your own home kind of thing. She managed to get off her fat ass, though, for a couple of pictures.And I got pretty excited because they all made me t-shirts...
But then I looked at the t-shirts and they were kind of funky. They all had snaps on the butt, and don't they know I need my houha free so I can pee? No one likes to pee in their pants...unless their hopelessly drunk and passed out on some random couch...but generally speaking, no one likes to pee in their pants.

I'm ONE!!!

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear meeee, happy birthday to me. Here's how I celebrated:Dina spent one of her 30 minute 'sitting up' reprieves from bedrest so that she could force me to take a picture when, really, all I wanted was my birthday biscuits.
I'm not sure what smelled stronger. This peanut butter cookie or Joe's finger...

WANTED: Alternative Entertainment From Me

I can't handle the pressure. I'm with Dina all day now that she's on bedrest. There's no reprieve. It's too much. There's only so much singing, barking, and interpretive dancing a dog can do (and really, I'm not that good at singing). I've got to find other things to entertain her, less she start using that masking tape lint-roller on me every hour, as opposed to every day...

I've already started to bring in the troops, but this little one couldn't handle the pressure.So please! Visit, call, write. Teach her how to knit, needlepoint, crochet! Or for you doctors out there, if there's a drug that will help pass the time a little more quickly (for her or me), then by all means! - it's your duty to help (and prescribe)! I don't really care what you guys do, just save me!!!

Woe is Me!!!

Dude. I knew this baby was going to screw me. Somehow, I just knew it. But I thought it would happen after he was born, not 2 months before!!! But he wants out and apparently he wants out now! He's got his big ol' head angling to get out, and he doesn't give a hoot that it's too early. So he's ruined my life in the meantime by putting Dina on bedrest.

The doctor says Dina needs to keep the bun in the oven and to make sure that he does, she's on bedrest and not allowed to do anything. That means, folks, that she's not allowed to walk me, play tug-of-war with me, take me to Crissy Field, bathe me, pick me up and carry me, nada, nothing, zilch!

But what do you do when you can't beat them? You join them.

So it's official. I'm on bedrest, too. Oh, I'm sorry, you want me to fetch that? No can do. Oh, did you want me to bark at strangers? Sorry, that's a little strenuous. Pee on the pad or outside? Wow, sorry, not really allowed to move around too much here.

Just going to lay here, because as we all know (but won't say aloud), I'm the real victim here.

Happy Anniversary!

Today is Joe and Dina's 2nd anniversary. Wow, already 2 years, some might say. Or wow, only 2 years?? Feels like it's been a lot longer (others, who shall remain nameless, say). In any event, it's a banner event, I suppose. The last anniversary before the last shreds of freedom are finally extinguished (and no, that's not my fault. I'm a dog. You can leave me at home alone for a few hours, and it wouldn't be considered child abandonment or endangerment. I'm not saying it's fair to us dogs, but it is what it is). Yup, the baby is only a few months away. Dina is in her third trimester and now has a pair of drawstring pants that no longer need to be 'drawn.' Joe and Dina have already started to neglect each other (as solid preparation for the baby) by not bothering to get anniversary presents (it's "cotton" this year anyway, what are they supposed to do? Get each other underwear? And if Joe is buying Dina cotton underwear, then folks, we have an evey bigger problem). Instead, they are going out to dinner with each other to Fleur de Lys, which I'm sure will be very enjoyable to Dina (who is not allowed to eat soft cheeses, foie gras, anything raw, or drink any exorbitant amount of wine) and Joe (who doesn't really care for fancy restaurants, as a five dollar burrito would suffice as well). But the occasion has to be marked somehow, I suppose, and they certainly can't do it by ordering a pizza from Giorgio's and calling it a night. And what they hey, leave me home alone for another few hours -- what trauma could that possible cause?!

So anyway, a quick shout out to my folks. Happy anniversary! You only have about 50 more years to spend with each other! Good luck with that!

Phil, the Man Pillow

I have a new nemesis. His name is Phil. He's a man pillow. Most pregnant women know Phil. In fact, most pregnant women have been intimate with Phil. They snuggle up next to him for most of their pregnancy, ignoring the advances of their husbands or the overtures of their favorite puppy. Phil basically gets some every night.

Oh wait, you don't know who or what Phil is? Well, Phil is a body pillow that pregnant women are supposed to sleep with in order to support their body while they are laying on their sides. Oh wait, maybe you don't know that after the fourth month, most doctors recommend that pregnant women sleep on their sides, preferably their left side. Something about compressing a major vein or circulation or whatever. Gimme a break, I'm just a dog not a doctor (and not even a pregnant dog at that, thank you again Dina & Joe).

I hate Phil. And I'll tell you why. He takes too much room on my bed. It's like there are 4 of us now: me, Phil, Dina & Joe. Pretty soon, Joe is going to sleep on the floor (where the dog bed is). I'm really quite angry that Dina brought Phil into the bed, and even more angry at Joe for letting Phil stay. Um, hello? Who's the man of the house? So I've been sort of passive agressive about the situation. I'm showing my displeasure by sleeping perpendicular. Sort of like this (you can see Phil behind me):That's right. Everyone sleeps parallel: Joe, Dina & Phil. But not me. I cross their bodies, like a little 't.' Because if I'm going to be uncomfortable in my bed, then EVERYONE is going to be uncomfortable.

The Days of Yore, with Pearl Jam

Joe and Dina went to a Pearl Jam concert last Saturday night. No, really, I'm serious. Here's the proof:
It was like they relived their youth, or thought they would, for one brief evening. Joe even busted out his flannel shirt, which Dina was horrified to learn that he still had, as it is circa 1993 and by the way, it's flannel. And yes, even though Joe's packed on a lean 30 pounds since his day's at ol' P.U., he actually still fits into that shirt. They actually match with the acid wash baby blue jeans with the ripped knees that he has hidden somewhere in the house away from Dina (it reminds Joe of Bon Jovi, and it reminds Dina of why she would never have dated Joe in college). Anyhow, the two of them pack up. He, in his flannel shirt (which by the way, was covering the Superman t-shirt underneath, that little fashionisto) and she, 6 months pregnant and hoping she wouldn't have to pee during every song.

Pearl Jam was here for 3 nights, all sold out. And it was the first time, as Eddie put it, that they have played in "San Francisco Proper" (because face it folks, Shoreline ain't in San Francisco) for 8 years. Sonic Youth was opening for them, which forced Joe into surmising at the pre-show dinner with friends what the hell were some of Sonic Youth songs...his guess? Runaway Train. No, JoeTo, that's Soul Asylum (as the waiter corrected Joe). And Dina could have sworn that Sonic Youth was frontlined by a female singer (yes, Dina, you still have faint memories of the early 90's).

The concert was faboo. They played a big breadth of songs, including some all-time favorites like Alive, Even Flow and Yellow Ledbetter. The venue was all General Admit, and as much as Dina wanted to mosh on the floor, the group found some excellent seats in the back row. Joe said he felt like he was in college again, drinking MGD and wafts of pot making their way through the air. Dina rocked out, as much as a woman with an extra 15 pounds on her belly could, and managed to not get a contact high (which by the way, for you concerned citizens, we checked with Dr. Mike and he said that her lungs would filter everything out, so the baby is safe -- now, if the baby turns out a little dumb, walks into walls, or god forbid, doesn't get into Princeton, then we'll just blame it on Pearl Jam and those liberal San Francisco security guards who patted people down, but let their bongs in anyway).

But here's where we go back to reliving one's youth. First, there were people moshing. About 5 people. Second, yes, people doobied up and got drunk, but they couldn't hang. One guy in front of Dina and Joe managed to fall asleep for the entire second set and the encore, despite his phone vibrating in his hand (as his girlfriend, who went to the bathroom, was desperately trying to find him as she couldn't manage to find her way back to the seat and instead, proceeded to cry as she leaned against a wall in the walkway lost for most of the night). Third, Dina seriously wondered that if somehow, Eddie Vedder saw her in the crowd, whether he would start to cry to himself since he has pregnant ladies jamming at his concerts these days. And fourth, forget the pregos, there were people there with their kids. As in, I loved Pearl Jam when I was in college and now I have two kids, so let's make this a family event. And so it all makes you wonder, where has the time went?

Circa 1993, the heyday of Pearl Jam:

Joe in college, studying all night doing lab homework. Height: 5'9". Weight: 130 lbs. Glasses: ~1 lb. Interest in women: Minimal. Interest in seeing Oliver stuff an entire Big Mac into his mouth: Maximum. Nerd factor: 10. Life ambition: make a lot of dough.

Dina in college, in Scott Tenley's room in High Rise East ready to 1) party, 2) go clubbing, or 3) go to Chili's for some fajitas. Attire: flannel. On good days: tights. Height of hair: ~2 inches. Life's ambition: become do-gooder lawyer. Real life's ambition: get a good score on the LSAT.

Now let's bring it circa 2006, the heyday of Joe and Dina To:
Joe, working his butt off at some hedge fund. Height: same. Weight: a sound 30 pounds more (but really, isn't he more handsome this way?). Glasses: occasionally not used during swimming nights, hockey nights, or when he's trying to 'dress up.' Interest in Dina: high. Interest in moi, i.e., TicTac: higher. Interest in seeing Oliver stuff an entire Big Mac into his mouth: Maximum. Life ambition: make a lot of dough.

Dina, no longer do-gooder lawyer, enjoying selfish pursuits of yoga, swim, and pilates classes instead. Attire: pants with belly panels for her ever-expanding figure. On good days: has showered. Height of hair: actually lays flat against her hair (she's saving the environment by not using her hairspray). Life's ambition: to be a good mom and not sweat the working thing. Real life's ambition: hopes Joe makes a lot of dough.

The passage of time has taken its toll on Joe and Dina. But does it really matter? As Pearl Jam would say, either way...

"I, I'm still alive"
Hey I, but, I'm still alive
Hey I, boy, I'm still alive
Hey I, I, I, I'm still alive, yeah
Ooh yeah...yeah yeah yeah...oh...oh..."

Babyfied

They are trying to convert me. To babyism. They are trying to get me to like babies. Even that, babies not born yet. It is a kick (literally sometimes!) to lay next to Dina's growing belly. And they are introducing new mini-people to me. I like this one called Avery. She smelled pretty good and tasted even better. Plus, she doesn't know what her hands do yet or that they're capable of grabbing my ears or tail.

Informercial Hell

I think Dina has too much time on her hands. She's watching too much television at odd hours. Middle of the day, late at night, who knows...but on her last stroll through Target, she bought what she thought was an 'essential.' No, not toilet paper or towels or water. She bought this, an informercial 'essential.' And it's killing me. The command to me is "climb" and when they say it, I'm expected to prance up those stairs to the bed like a prat. One, I don't prance. Two, why do I need stairs to get into the bed when I have them to pick me up and put me there? But they are trying to train me to use it, and they use these little lamb/chicken treats to lure me up there. Because I'm desperate and a dog, I always try to go for the treat. But it's exasperating. The first two steps, no problem. Then things start to get a little rickety (as plastic stairs should be expected to be). Take a look at the picture. Doesn't the step closest to the bed a little high? I'm sorry, but this doesn't look OSHA compliant to me at all and I'm seriously debating whether to report this.

The kicker is on the front of the box, there's a picture of a beagle, one of my own kind (!), going up and down these stairs. And I just want to find that beagle, and kick its ass.

My Bad

Um, so, like, today when I got back from my doggie romp, I came home. Dina wasn't home. And you see, uh, the cleaners came, right? They cleaned up but they didn't take out the trash. They left the trash in the hallway. I don't know why. But doggie instinct took over, and well, uh, these pictures probably say more than a thousand words.
Do you think Dina and Joe still love me? It's not like I ate any of those cherry pits (just the carrots, bread, and kashi...).

Beachside Ruminations

So you all know that I go to Crissy Field every weekend to play on the beach. It's really about the best thing in the world, but each time I go, I leave ruminating about something. So here are some of my thoughts...

When some dogs run around, they slobber. Bigtime. I don't really slobber, I'm not a drooly kind of dog (and I don't have stinky breath either, but don't worry, my farts can kill brain cells). Anyhow, there are a lot of dogs on the beach that really slobber. And when you play with them, they whip their heads around, letting a rope of slobber loose, usually landing on my face. Now, that's gross right? Like Something About Mary gross, don't you think? Because that's what it looks like, too...

If a dog poops and the tide begins to wash it out, should an owner still try to clean it up? Even though after the first wave breaks, the poop disperses into dozens of little poops? Can an owner really get all of those? And is it really that offensive when you all know that humans pee in the ocean. I mean, you learn when you're little to swim away from the warm spot, right?

There are some big dogs out there, like Marmaduke sized dogs. Now, when you greet another dog, we don't shake paws. We sniff each other's butt. That's the polite thing to do. But when the dog is as big as Marmaduke and I'm, what, like a foot high, the only way I can take a whiff is if I stand up on two paws, lean my front paws on his butt, and get in there. I think that's a little more intrusive than a quick greeting is suppose to be, but what other choice do I have?

Why does Dina yell every time I drink the water? It's tasty, nice and salty! Or wait, does this have something to do with the peeing in the ocean thing you all do...

When dogs poop at the beach, it's like an unstated law that the owner should clean it up. Crissy Field even has all these little dispensers with free plastic bags just for that purpose. Plus, if you're a dog at Crissy Field, you definitely have an owner. It's not like you meandered there yourself, someone clearly brought you there. So then pray tell, why, oh why, is poop left on the beach to bask in the sun???

Finally, why does Joe run after me on the beach? Why doesn't he just stay in one place like Dina, and wait for me to come back when he calls my name. He's the only human on the beach chasing his dog. Seriously. Everyone else just stands around and watches. He's starting to embarrass me (never mind the fact he brings his camera to the beach to take pictures of me. I mean, oh my gawd, Daaaaaad, can you, like, be totally more embarrassing or what?!).

Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner!!!

Move it, Jennifer-friggin-Grey, cuz I'M THE BABY!!!

So what is this that I hear about Joe getting one past the goalie and getting Dina pregnant??? Is that allowed? I thought she was spayed already! I'm finding this very socially irrresponsible of them...

But alas, it's true. Dina is good and fat and pregnant. Here's a pic of the little brat. And here's how I feel about the whole thing:
Quick digression. Here's a rhetorical question, if a pregnant woman asks you if she looks fat, what do you say back? Truth be told, she looks like a fatass. But fear and good sense would dictate that you don't answer that or you lie. But if you lie, you know she's going to catch you, because c'mon, we all know that she's getting fat (as she's supposed to be, since she's growing a little Qua To in her belly). And yet, she continues to ask you that same question, over and over again. It's like Chinese water torture. And really, sometimes, I wish I could just speak for Joe and say "You know the answer. But yes, for crying out loud, you are fat. In fact, you are more than fat. Your stomach is ballooning, your ass is getting wider and flatter, and your boobs are GIGANTIC. But please recall, you are also pregnant. And while Joe did this to you, which in time will be repaid (probably in the form of jewelry), is it really fair to ask the poor schmuck this question over and over again when you know the answer and whatever he says is really just going to get him a shitload of trouble????" Yeesh! Ok, end of digression.

So yes people! She's pregnant. And what I really want to know is, what does this mean for me? I'm the baby! We all know I'm the baby! I'm the spoiled little doggie that gets to sleep in the bed, that gets taken to Crissy Field every weekend, that gets treats whenever I actually just look at Joe and Dina. Let's face it folks, I thought this was a monarchy, not a democracy. I'm ruler of this kingdom right now, and I will not have some little burping/pooping/farting usurper taking my position. Or yanking my tail, for that matter.

Oh, how I long for the good ol' days.
So I'm pissed folks. And just a tad bit worried. But what I need is some strategery...Pee on the baby? Poop in the house more? Eat the baby's food? Make friends with the baby to infiltrate the new regime? Hmmm...maybe that's the ticket. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.......

My New Best Friend

I want to introduce you to my pal, Sophie. Sophie and I actually met when I was just a young pup, a mere 8 or so weeks old, when she and her family let me board there temporarily while Joe and Dina went away (yes, I, too, think it's incredibly irresponsible to get a puppy and then ditch her with some other family while they go gallivanting in Utah, New York, Las Vegas, wherever the heck they were...). Look at me at here, scared out of my wits (this was taken by Sophie's dad). Anyhow, let's put aside the issues of puppy neglect (is that a chargeable offense, Uncle David L. and Aunty Allison???)...So recently, Joe and Dina went to New York for a wedding. Actually, it was the wedding of Joe's friend Erik, whose ex-girlfriend Beth, who was a college friend of Dina's, who introduced Joe to Dina (and vice versa) and blah blah blah. Whatever, doesn't matter, they got together, happy ending, now back to me. Anyway, I spent the week at Sophie's and I learned a couple of things.

Generally speaking, suburbia is good. Dude. I was in a backyard with a kickass pool, grass area, and cemented play area. I had so many spots to pee on, I would need a year to be able to cover every inch! I didn't have some strange dogwalker coming to get me everyday (ok, Dave, I love you now, but at first, I was like "who the heck is this redhaired dude grabbing me by the collar???"). I got to chill in the backyard (near the pool and hot tub, eat your heart out Master P), run to my heart's content, and then stroll back into the cool house where both food and water awaited. Plus, when I let farts rip in the backyard, no one yelled at me about how she's dying and has been poisoned by my ass (ahem, Dina). So I don't know if you know, but Joe and Dina have been debating about whether to stay in the city or move to the burbs. I think we know what my vote is for....

More specifically speaking, I learned that Sophie is an awesome buddy. I also learned that Sophie can blow through (no pun intended) a bully stick way faster than I can. Sophie also has really acidic pee (accounting for the yellow spots in the backyard grass). Sophie also has long nails that need to be cut, but her parents, like mine, are too chicken to do it as often as they are supposed to. And I learned that Sophie loves me a lot. And I love her back. She's my best friend (cue in happy music here).