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).

Menace(s) to Society

People. Not all dogs are good. I swear. No, I'm not a hypocrite or turning on my own. I'm just telling you how it is. Don't be fooled by the fur, dopey looks, and drool. Although there are few and far between, some dogs can be nasty. They probably have issues of self-hatred or can't live up to their mothers' expectations. Whatever it is, even I have been victim to these menaces.

And here's just one of the problems. Owners who let their dogs off leash around the neighborhood, when the dogs clearly aren't meant to be let off leash, really chew my hide . I'm sorry, but I'm stuck to a 6 foot leash so when your llasa apso comes tearing at me, going for the jugular, I don't really have a lot freedom to 1) fight back or 2) run away (ok, let's be honest, I'd run away). So why don't you take your little vicious mopdog, slap on a collar, and call it a day. Just because their little, doesn't mean they're not nasty. Isn't Mike Tyson only like 5'9"? That guy is still trying to floss out Evander's ear from his back molars. But you'd be pissed, too, if you looked like this, I guess.

Also annoying? Owners who don't discipline their dogs when they get feisty on the street. I've had two bad run-ins with pugs lately and I don't think it's a reflection of the pug (yes, yes, I hear they are a wonderful breed), so much as the pansy ass owners that only pretend to be the alpha.

Like Percy. I go walking by one day, all nice and all, wagging my little tail with the white tip, and Percy goes berserk. Beee-serrk! And I don't know if you've ever heard a pug go berserk before, but it's downright bone-chilling. They make these gasping-gacking-throat noises that will give a pup nightmares for a week. And what did Percy's owner do? Coo. No, I'm serious. "Ohhhhhh Peeeerrrccyyy, nowww you beeeee quiettttt. Peeeeerrrrccyyyy!" Are you kidding me? You think Dina coos at me when I shit on the carpet? That Percy dog needed a poke in the ass, not some owner sing-songing her discipline.

Run-in number 2 with pug. Enjoying the day at Crissy field, and this pug comes and humps my butt. Not once. Not twice. We're talking like double digits people. Now, I didn't enjoy that. I think there are probably very few dogs that enjoy attempted butt-rape. What did his owner do? "Oh my goodness, I don't know what's gotten into him. He's neutered, by the way." I'm sorry, but if I came and humped that owner's butt, I don't think he would been cooing at me to stop. He'd be jerking my collar and heaving me into nowhere-land. I know I'm sexy and all, but just 'cause I don't wear clothes, doesn't mean I'm asking for it.This little guy looks ready to go, in more ways than one, if you know what I mean...

So people, all I'm saying is be aware and beware. You don't like every dog, and every dog doesn't like you. And sometimes, if you're really unlucky, they like you (and your leg) way way way too much.

Fo' Shizzle My Pizzle

[Warning: The material in this blog post may not be suitable for those under 18. Please use parental guidance when reading.]

So do you guys know what a bully stick is? Well, look closely at the nub I'm chewing here, cuz that's a bully stick (it started out 10 inches long, thank you very much):
Dogs chew on this, keep themselves busy, supposed to keep the teeth strong and clean. All that good stuff. And let me tell you, I love my bully sticks. I can go through half a bully stick in a single day if I set my mind to it. Dina thinks there must be crack in it because I'm so addicted. But dude, did you ever eat those fat-free potato chips with Olestra in it, and you look at the back of the bag, and you're like "What???? This causes anal leakage???" Well, my friends, bully sticks rocked my doggie world just like that.

The other day, the To family took a closer look at a bag of bully sticks at Costco. And the ingredients said "Steer pizzle." Pizzle...now what the heck is that? Dunno, let's wait til we get home and look it up. Sounds fun, though, doesn't it? Pizzle, twizzle, fizzle...it's like a Snoop Dog ingredient, fo' shizzle. Well, my friends, it's not fun. It's not funny either.

Here is the definition of pizzle:

piz·zle n.
1. The penis of an animal, especially a bull.
2. A whip made from a bull's penis.

Well kiss my grits ladies and gents! I've been eating dick all this time!!!

JoToe

You probably never really thought about Joe's name much, but I've bet you've made fun of it as least once or twice. I mean, even to the child, it's obvious. The name rhymes. And it's incredibly short. So it all sounds like one word, really. Even my cousins Jessica and Gillian for at least 2 years thought that Joe's real name was "Uncle Joeto." But you know, Joe seems to take it like a champ. He always says "People never forget my name, though" and he's the kind of guy that doesn't really mind of you make fun of his name. He's just that laid back (whereas Dina, when being made fun of by Jason Sarceda in 4th grade with "Dina Wong and King Kong play ping pong in Hong Kong" swiftly kicked young Jason in the 'nads, is not nearly as easygoing). But back to Joe. Everyone has made fun of his name at some point. And so I dedicate this blog post to him, with some all time favorites:
'Hey Joe! I bet when you got engaged, Dina was really happy to get a To ring. Did you drive her to Half Moon Bay in the To truck? And what'd you guys snack on during the ride? Chee Tos? Dori Tos? Free Tos? But seriously, Joe, you guys are going to have such cute kids. You could name them:

Qua To (you did see Total Recall, right??)
Fro To (Lord of the Rings fan?)
Quasimo To (he'll ring your bell anytime)
Missy To (seasonal, but still nice)
Juani To (a little ethnic flair)
(if twins) Big & Little To
Pinky To (she can wear a Pink Ladies jacket when she hits high school)
Ho To (good lord, I hope not).'

Thank you! Thank you very much. I'll be here all the week. Ba-rum bum!!!

Puberty

I'm in Puppy Junior High now. That is, I'm in an intermediate puppy training class. There's probably about 10 of us, but I'm the only beagle. Now, I also attended Puppy Preschool, and I did just great there. Sit, Down, Come. No problemo mis amigos. But, and I don't know how this happened, where I was once truly top dog, suddenly I've lost my mojo. Junior high is filled with these overachievers who sit, then lay down, then stay (for like minutes on end!) and for only one treat! I'm just sure that everyday after getting walked, they go home and they train and train and train until it's time to go to bed. Don't they know there isn't an AP test at the end of the class?

Me? I tug at my leash, get distracted by the other dogs, whine when Dina and Joe are trying to confine me to one area, and you can forget about me staying in place. Treat or no treat, there are other dogs here! It's time to play! And as far as I'm concerned, when I'm at home, it's all about rest and relaxation, not training. It would be a travesty if I missed the next episode of Top Chef (what's up with that snotty sommelier Steven anyway???). Last night was a particularly memorable class, as I managed to drag a plastic chair almost 10 feet, by twisting my leash around it.

Should I feel badly about this? Some say this is a reflection on my parents, that my bad behavior was created and/or condoned by them. You know, like when you're watching a kid thrown a tantrum on the grocery store floor, and think "Oh my, she needs some stronger parenting!" Or maybe I'm the rebel trying to buck the system, show other pups that it doesn't have to be this way. You can live a fine life without doing these ridiculous tricks as long as you don't bite anyone (once is ok -- maybe it was a mistake; twice, you are being reconsidered as to whether you're a contributing family member; thrice, and you're outta there). Or maybe, just maybe, I'm a genius. And what's really going on here is that I'm bored and unchallenged at these classes. I mean, you don't have to finish school to be a success, right? Look at Bill Gates. He dropped out of Harvard. Or Matt Damon, same thing. So you see? I think I'm probably destined for that kind of greatness and no one is aware of it just yet. I'm going to be the richest dog in the world or some one-hit actor wonder (but that one-hit is going to be an Oscar winner and no, the Bourne series do not count as quality acting).

Speak, Dina, speak!

A guest blog by Dina:

TicTac is now 7 months old and has been in our household for 5 months now. It's a funny thing, being a dog owner. Some have likened it to having a child, although I see some serious differences. Besides the fact that TicTac is not of the human race (we still love you, anyway, TicTac), or that she looks nothing like myself or Joe (so you can't wonder, hmmm, is she Chinese, Filipino, Laotian, or Mexican?), you can't really slap a diaper on TicTac and call it a day. She's totally mobile, which unfortunately, means that so is her 1) vomit, 2) pee, and 3) diarrhea. At the same time, Joe and I will never have to worry about whether TicTac will grow up confident and self-assured, that she gets into a good college, or marries some fine young dog from a good breed.

But here are some things that dog ownership has taught me:

1. Guilt comes easy. You leave the house for an hour, you come back to a wailing dog. You feel pretty lousy about that. Now try leaving your dog at a kennel, no matter how fancy, for 10 days and not feel guilty about that. I've wondered often whether TicTac really misses us. As it is, she just sleeps most of the day. So I really wonder whether TicTac feels any pangs of "I miss you." Or whether it's because we are so pre-conditioned to feel guilt about any last thing. So should I feel guilty when I leave the house for an hour? Or should I be saying, 'you're a dog. Dogs live in the wild, for crying out loud. I'm sure you can manage for an hour."

2. I am the disciplinarian. Now, this is very meaningful for the future of the To household. One day, Joe and I may have kids. And it's become abundantly clear to me, in our raising of young TicTac, that I am the bitch. I'm the one that tells her "off," "no," "leave it," that doesn't want her sleeping in the bed all the time, that doesn't have treats in every single pocket of every single item of clothing I own. Now, this would all be okay and acceptable if this was only about raising TicTac. But this does not bode well for the future. Just imagine a possible, yet likely, conversation between me and the future To child (who we can call Quasimo -- think about that -- for now) one day:

Quasimo: Can I have this?
Me: No, you can't.
Quasimo: Why not?
Me: Because I said so. [As much as I hope I never say this, there's a high probability that this will come out of my mouth one day.]
Quasimo: [Throwing fit] Fine! I don't love you anyway!
Me: That's okay, the store where I bought you said I could return you within 10 years anyway. [Again, hopefully I will never say something like this, but sarcasm really is one of my best qualities.]
{Five minutes pass, and Quasimo finds Joe}
Quasimo: Can I have this?
Joe: Sure!
Quasimo: I love you the best, daddy. [At the same time, thinking, Mommy sure is bitch. Incidentally, you might wonder why a child so young knows the word "bitch" and again, that will probably be my fault.]

As you can see, this dialogue can play out in many scenarios. I want a candy, I want this computer game, I want to watch TV, I want this car. And actually, it has played out. TicTac licks Joe's face more, wails more when he leaves, and sleeps on his side of the bed more. I'm doomed. Damn Joe, for being such a pushover for the ones he loves (it's both my blessing and my curse).

3. I am truly an adult. I had thought, when I was 29, that when I turned 30, I would really be an adult. But then 2 years later, once I really got my shit together, I realized oh, okay, now I'm an adult. Now, there's no question. Besides being an age that is starting to sound ancient to me (I mean, when you start identifying more and more with the women of Sex in the City, you know you're a goner), I realize that with dog ownership, my freedom is gone.

No more whisking away for a surprise get away weekend. Or for long, 5 hour multi-course meals. Or for a Saturday jaunt to Napa. Nope, nope. Who's going to walk the dog during that time? Will she need to go poop? Will she have food? Getaways now require arranging for 'care' for TicTac. Or we bring her with us. I pack my single bag. And then I pack TicTac's crate, blankets, food, bowls, chew toys, treats, necessary medicine, and the list goes on. The weekends revolve around visits to Crissy Field so TicTac can run around (like a banshee, I might add) on the beach. If there's a choice between, say, going to Crissy Field or hitting a Museum, guess what we're doing (okay, a museum was a bad choice, who wouldn't pick Crissy Field -- let's say a movie, or going bowling!).

But at the end of the day, she's still worth the responsibility. Especially when I hang out with her all day, with her ignoring me - and then Joe comes home, and TicTac falls into a fit of excitement for her husband. Woops, I mean, my husband.

A family portrait:

Lady of Leisure

Did you ever leave work early for a doctor's appointment, drive down a popular street, and wonder "where the heck do all these people come from??? Don't they have jobs?" I've wondered that, especially about places like Union Street, where it seems the people dining outside linger for hours with not a care in the world. And you just gotta wonder, what are you doing? Don't you have a job? I mean, I might be a dog, but even I have a job. I am a 24 hour companion. I get paid (in food and board) to accompany Joe and Dina on their excursions, sleep the day away, and occasionally fetch a ball. Hell, I'll even play dead if it means you're giving me a biscuit. Now, more than ever, my job has become quite demanding, though. My numero uno boss has become a lady of leisure. So I'm working pretty much 24/7. She, too, can be one of those people dining for hours at Rose's Cafe with the only thing plaguing her being the need for a new mani/pedi. But is she, is the question...

Here are a few things I've learned about Dina since she left her job.

1. Dina likes to be productive. She uses her free time to catch up on all sorts of things, and sometimes battles guilt when she feels like she hasn't done enough (enough of what, I have no idea. There's only so many loads of laundry you can do).

2. But, and here's a big but, Dina also really enjoys relaxing. So she has adapted surprisingly well to her new lifestyle. No, she doesn't lounge at cafes (and for the record, has not had a mani/pedi since she quit, which I think is a big mistake), but she certainly does take her time at the gym.

3. Free time is proving to be a good thing for Dina. She's more relaxed and easy-going (not a word that would have applied to her before). Personally, and don't tell her I said this, I think she's a better mom to me and I wouldn't say a better wife, but rather, she's a better friend to Joe now. She has more time to ask how he's doing, and perhaps more importantly, she actually listens to his answer.

But back to the initial question, what do we (she, a lady of leisure, and me, her paid companion) do with our days?

We read, but sometimes I have trouble finding books I like:


We eat, although I don't share my food:


We nap...Well, I nap. Dina serves as my pillow:


And sometimes, we just cuddle:


I have to say, my job might be demanding, but it's certainly rewarding.

I am too loved.

No such thing, you say! Love is good, how can there be too much, you say! If you have too much love, you're simply a lucky dog, you say! Ahhh, you say all those things because you are not an 18 pound beagle who has no ability to speak her mind, save for a bark here and there. And even when I do that, people coo, and say "how cute! Listen to her!" Well, unfortunately, I can't say anything -- not anything you'd understand anyway. It's certainly not possible for me to push my little digits down, only to leave one furry digit up solo, giving you the bird. And that's fortunate, for you all. Because if I could say something to you, or make any sort of human-like gestures, I would say this first. Stop dressing me up. I am not a toy. I come with my own coat, and in fact, I'm even double-coated. Since my kind has been around since the 1800's, we managed to evolve a bit, and my coat is so damn good, that I'm practically rain-repellant. But yet you (and that's the collective you, as all of you are guilty of this) think that despite my evolved double-coat, I still need to be dressed up. And then you do things like this to me.

Here I am, an American Apparel model. And like American Apparel models, I am also underage, pubescent, scantily-clad, generally sweaty and dirty, and provacatively posed:

Here's a Mexico City American Apparel employee (no kidding, it's from their site) - who's sexier?:

This is my Martha Stewart poncho. Yes, I too should be imprisoned for wearing this. At least her's hid her ass:

Here's Martha, your hero (you love to hate her, but you really just wish that she would stop making you looked so damn messy and like you can't throw a decent dinner party):

Look ma! I'm a pimp! Aren't you proud?:

And Ice T, because he used to be a pimp and clearly, he still rolls like one!:

Folks, all I'm asking for is my dignity.

P.S. Please don't be confused, I do, in fact, love getting gifts. I accept foods of all sort, belly rubs, and gift certificates for belly rubs (is this my wishlist, or Joe's?). But please, no Christmas sweaters with dogs on it, or special needlepoint pillows with a baying beagle on it. I am NOT what I wear.

I'm not a girl...Not yet a woman.

Sadly, most of you reading this probably know that the title to this post is a little shout-out to Britney, as this was one of her big hits that helped lead her to Crossroads acting fame. Or perhaps that was too long ago, and now all you can remember is that Britney got a bit chunky, is awfully-looking like white trash, and is a former pop star that can't manage to put on shoes before she hits the public restroom at gas stations. Never mind the fact that she married what is indisputably white trash (rap career or no rap career), K-Fed, who strangely enough hails from nearby Sacto, yet not strangely enough, fathered a couple kids out of wedlock.

In any event, enough about them, more about me. The reason I titled this blog "I'm not a girl...Not yet a woman" is because, WAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH, I've been spayed! I don't understand. Joe and Dina pretend like they love me, like they treasure me, like I'm the only thing that matters in this world. And then what they do? They have me drugged so someone can rip my uterus out. I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! Feel sorry for me. Feel very very sorry for me.

Here are the before and after photos.

Before:

After (can't you just see the pain on my face, never mind the pain in my houha!):


I don't think I'm exaggerating my pain. I didn't go willingly. For crying out loud, I had to be drugged the entire time (I wish I still was - how 'come there's no doggie prescription for Vicadin?). The word on the street is that this is a good thing. I know, I know. I don't need those dude dogs sniffing at me anyway (don't they know that NO means NO??!!). But my trust in Joe and Dina is seriously altered and it's going to take a little more than peanut butter and pupperoni to gain it back (more like peanut butter, pupperoni, and bits of apples! I know, I'm an expensive date!).

In defense of my whining, I'd just like to ask Joe and Dina each a question. Exactly how would they feel if they had their private parts removed (permanently, my friends! There's no velcro reattachment going on here!!!). In any event, I feel lost. I'm not longer a girl, yet I'm surely not yet (or likely ever will be now) a woman. And shoot, the least they could have done was a little lipo on my ass if they were going to put me under...or maybe I'm just really really furry on my backend. Yeah...that's the ticket.

Easy like Sunday morning

I can't help but let the soothing lyrics of Lionel Richie (of Commodores fame for those born in the 70's and before; Nicole Richie's father, for those of you born in the 80's and after) come to mind whenever Joe is around. Joe is like...Joe is like eating a turkey meal, taking a dose of Nyquil, or returning home at 3 a.m. after a hard night of partying where you end up waiting for a piece of pizza at Pizza Orgasmica on Fillmore Street wondering how the hell you're going to get home. In other words, Joe just makes you want to doze off and take a nap. I don't know if it's his own predisposition to napping, the perfect amount of fat to bone ratio on his body, or the body heat he exudes, but whenever I'm around Joe, I just want to drift off and slumber for, oh, just a bit...
Joe doesn't even mind when I spoon him.

Year of the Dog

Gung Hay Fat Choy! Ok, I'm a little late, but I've been boozing since Chinese New Year, I finally woke up from my nasty pijiu hangover and I'm ready to spread the love. Dude, it only comes around every 12 years, but this year is MY YEAR! The Year of the Dog! Woohoo!

This year is going to be a great year. First of all, my PoPo was born in a dog year. Here's PoPo with all the men in her life:

Here's PoPo with all the woman in her life: She's lucky, you know, because she has all those people that love her in her life.

Second of all, Dina turned 34 in February. 34, for whatever reason, is her favorite number. No, not because she really loved Charles Barkley or Fernando Valenzuela for that matter.




Instead, that's Dina's basketball number, the number she had since she was in 4th grade at a ripe 10 years of age. She's actually 11 in this picture, but see if you can pick her out. She's in the first row, being one of the shortest. She's always been in the first row. No, it wasn't selected for any particular reason other than the number was free. But Dina kept that number from age 10 , all the way through high school, and even during some club play post-high school. (By the way, for all of you wondering, just because you play a sport that long doesn't mean you are good. And surely, you aren't any good 14 years after not playing the sport at all. It's almost like you never played at all. And did you check out that hair??).




Third of all, and here's my final reason. For cryin' out loud people, it's the Year of the Dog, and I'm a DOG!!! So bow wow wow yippee yo yippee yay to you all, my peeps. Have a great year!

Joe zai nar??? (translation: Joe, where are you?)

Joe is off again traveling for work. I don't know whether that means poor Dina, or poor Joe. Or poor Dina, good for Joe. This time, he's off to the East Coast and he'll round back here before he's off to Asia. Joe travels to Asia enough that it's quite possible he's living a second life there (I'd guess Shanghai, where he has some young Chinese, Mandarin-speaking, kowtowing, I'm so glad to be with handsome American man doesn't he look like Chinese Hugh Grant, gal. Plus, I bet she makes some killer dumplings, too. Hopefully not made out of dog meat). Why doesn't he ever take me? I'd look pretty good in Chinese gear, don't you think?

You might think Dina would get suspicious of all these business trips of Joe's, that she'd be percolating with anger or jealousy when he skypes her to tell her that he's going out that evening. But nah, Dina doesn't care. She says as long as she's first wife, it doesn't matter (first wife, always number 1!!! Now, go make me some dumplings bi-atch). But I think Dina doesn't really care when Joe's gone because now she has me. I keep her company -- we watch tv together, eat together, take walks together, and go to sleep together. I mean, we love Joe and all, but does she really need him when she has me? After all, as the great Charles Schultz once coined:

And my friends, I am always warm.

Who am I?

I'm Jean Valjean! No, just kidding. I'm not a French revolutionary, I'm really just a little dog.

But don't you ever have those days where you wonder what you're all about? Like maybe you feel like you're really creative deep down, longing to write the great American novel (don't even begin to ask me how many dogs I know who want to do that...). Or maybe you feel like you picked the wrong career, that you'd make a great event planner or could have made millions in Finance. Or maybe you wish you were in the internet industry, circa 1998. Or maybe you're like Dina, who would have picked a career somehow dealing with food, and if you had to get more specific, cheese.

Anyhow, I'm just saying that I'm no different. My brain may be the size of a clementine and I may bark at my own reflection, but that doesn't mean that I don't have depth.

Consider this...

Sometimes I wish I was a spy because I love watching people:

Sometimes I wish I was a dikini (that's dog-bikini for short) model because I love the sun:

Sometimes I wish I was an Olympic swimmer, or even just a frog:

And sometimes I wish I was famous, like Beagley-Beagley, friend of Grape Ape:

Not as cute as I once was

I'm almost six months old. I'm taller, longer, louder, and sometimes I long for my butt to be the same size it was 4 months ago. Nevertheless, I am still ultra-cute!

Ohhhh, the doggy thinks she's screwed, eh?!

Guest blogger featured today: My pal, Dina.

So the little I-am-so-adorable-you're-ok-with-me-peeing-here-right?-dog thinks she's screwed because I am not working anymore. I feel the need to elaborate, or justify, or defend, or explain, or something.

Yes, I quit my job at Yahoo!. Yes, this is after plugging away at the law for a decade (ok, that includes law school, but law school really really sucked). Yes, it didn't matter that I finally found a job I truly enjoyed with intelligent, motivated, normal (key word: normal) people. Yes, it was the most difficult decision that I've ever had to make. Yes, of course you would have done it differently. And yes, Joe is officially my Sugar Daddy.

(And for all those naysayers. No, it wasn't because of the commute. Yahoo! rocked the house in many ways, and if I hear any criticism of it, I will have to take you out back and beat you with a stick).

So you are probably wondering, then, why I left. Why does a dog lick his balls? Because he can.

The next question you are probably wondering is what am I doing with my time. So far, not much. I've managed to cook dinner, the first time in many months. I managed to vacuum the carpets, the first time in many months. And I managed to do all our laundry, not the first time in many months (because let's face it, that would be just gross). I have grand illusions as to what the future may hold for me, but for now, I'm thankful to be able to wake up without an alarm clock, take leisurely walks through the Presidio, try all the new classes at the JCC gym (the Cardio Latino was, um, interesting), and be appreciative of the life that I worked my at least part of my ass off for, and of the husband who continues to work his ass off to sustain it.

Now, let's all give a shout out to Joe.

Holy Jamoly. I am screwed.

Ok, someone is playing a really dirty trick on me. On January 30th, Dina and I took a trip to L.A. for a week for what I thought was vacation. And it was a great trip. I got to lick Aunty Di's face, Uncle Ken's face, and even cousin Alyssa (who by the way, is allergic to dogs, but couldn't resist me anyway because like we all know, I'm irresistible).

So then we get back on February 5th, and I'm pretty happy to be back home. It's nice to go on vacation, but sometimes you miss your routine. Back sleeping in my bed, back to my old chew toys, and back to the predictable. So I wake up on the 6th and am expecting business like usual. You know, Joe walks me at 6:30 a.m., puts me back in bed with Dina, she wakes up at 7 a.m., gets ready for work, puts a little peanut butter treat in my crate, locks me up, and off she goes. And there I am, waiting for Puppy Prep to pick me up for an afternoon jaunt with other puppies, and then back to my crate to wait for Joe to arrive home first.

But whooooaaaa!! What the hell? Come Monday morning, everything seems fine. Joe gets up, takes me out, and puts me back into bed with Dina. But then wait. She doesn't wake up at 7. In fact, the alarm doesn't even go off! And then, she doesn't shower -- she's putzing around the house, cleaning things, opening mail, organizing things into piles, putting laundry together. Ends up, she doesn't leave the entire day!! She's there when I leave for Puppy Prep, and she's there when I get back. I'm really freaking out now, but it's an aberration, I think. She doesn't feel well, so she's staying home. That's what happened when she had the flu a month ago, she was home for 4 days...but wait, something's definitely different.

Tuesday rolls around, and I'm thinking, alrighty, everything back to normal. Joe, walk me and leave me. Dina, shower and get the heck out of this joint. But what??? She's here! Again. Invading my space. This time she takes issue with the living room, and spends most of the day cleaning it, like every single thing from every slat in our shutters, to getting down on her knees with a vacuum cleaner to get every single dog hair I've shed thus far. Ok people, now I need to know what's going on. She's obviously not sick because she's moving around pretty well. This is two days in a row. And dammit, what is happening???

So that night, I listened very carefully to Joe and Dina's conversation.

HOLY CRAP. SHE QUIT HER JOB. SHE IS TAKING SOME TIME OFF. SHE WILL BE HERE EVERY DAY NOW.

Does anyone else feel like their leash just got a lot shorter???

Why my life kicks ass

Don't let my sad hound eyes trick you. I am one uber-happy dog. My life rocks!!! And here's why:

1. I sleep on the bed. Not only do I sleep on the bed, but I sleep anywhere on the bed. That means, I sleep under the covers, I sleep over the covers, I sleep at the foot of the bed, I sleep at the top of the bed, I sleep between Joe's legs, I sleep between Dina's legs. Plus, I sleep on Joe's head, across Dina's neck, and in between the two of them. I am queen of the bed, hear me howl.

2. I am the only other living thing in the To household beside the two Tos. What does this mean? This means I get all the attention, all the pets, all the hugs, all the kisses, all the belly rubs, and all the food that falls to the ground, whether it's a piece of apple, a bit of tortilla chip, a single grate of sweetened coconut, or a grain of rice. Here I am, looking for any of those.

3. I am famous in Laurel Heights. I am known on Sacramento Street, all the way from Walnut to Cherry, and maybe even on Clay and California. People call to me, from across the way: "Is that TicTac???," they call, "she's getting sooooo big!!!" Random strangers come up to me, scoop me up and cuddle me. I've made friends with all my neighbors, who regularly tell Dina and Joe that they will puppysit me anytime, and that I should visit more often. Ira, at the antique shop on the corner, always runs out to give me treats. One woman, as she drove by in her minivan, even stopped the car in the middle of the street, rolled down the window, and called out telling me how cute I was! I have been told (and more than once) that I am the ultimate chick magnet.

4. I live in San Francisco. That means there's hiking, wine country, skiing, the beach, wonderful weather, and liberal politics (I am pro-dog-choice, after all). On what is typically a cold, snowy or rainy day for others, I spent a January Sunday doing this:



And this:











So, enough said. Or I mean, e-ruff said.