The Perfect Dog

I have to admit I wasn’t happy the day seven years ago when my wife unloaded the dog crate from the back of her SUV.

“What’s in there?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“A puppy,” Kiki beamed. “And not just any puppy, a Portuguese Water Dog! Someone just abandoned him on the road. Can you believe that? We’re going to foster him until the animal rescue finds him a good home.”

“We don’t have room for another dog,” I pleaded. “We already have two.”

“But Madison doesn’t have a dog of her own,” Kiki said. “It’s not fair that her big sister has a dog and she doesn’t.”

Madison was eight years old at the time. Old enough, I supposed, to care for her own pet.

“So the whole foster thing?”

“Still an option,” Kiki said, “If they don’t get along. But I’ll bet they do. Scooter is perfect for her.”

I had been had.
Scooter, at the time, was little more than a bouncy ball of black fur.

Cute? Yes.

Perfect? Not even close.
To begin with, Scooter shed like crazy…depositing clumps of hair around the house as he padded from room to room.

He was also afraid of almost everything: high heeled shoes, baseball caps, the vacuum cleaner, my mother-in law, even goldfish.

And he would forget who you were the minute you walked out of a room. Walk back in 20 seconds later, and Scooter would alternatively bark, cower in the corner, or pee on the floor. Walk out and return wearing a hat and high heels…and he would do all three things at once.
But Scooter never barked at Madison.
When work moved our family halfway across the country to Dallas, Scooter helped Madison cope with leaving her human friends behind. She fed him, walked him, played with him, and most importantly…she loved him.
When the occasional door was left open, and the other two dogs would run off to the neighbors yards, Scooter never followed them. I’m sure he figured there was nothing “out there” that was more important than Madison. He loved her unconditionally. I know how that feels.
Scooter stopped using his left rear leg a few weeks ago. The vet thought he had a strained ligament. If it didn’t get better with medication, the dog would need surgery.

We expected Scooter to live another seven years. Madison expected him to live forever. None of us expected cancer.
Last week, Scooter stopped using both rear legs.

This week, we learned the awful truth…even surgery couldn’t save him.
Madison spent Tuesday morning saying goodbye to Scooter. She fed him, prayed for him, and rubbed his head for the last time. Then she went to school; too heartbroken to be with him at the very end.
“He’s gone,” my wife said over the phone that afternoon. “He’s not suffering anymore.”

I was on the road, heading from one disaster to the next.

“I’m so sorry,” was all I could manage.

I’m supposed to be tougher than this; if not as a father, then at least as a reporter. So I apologize if you saw me sitting alone in the lobby of my hotel last week. Nobody wants to see a grown man cry. But my daughter just lost her best friend. He was always there for her, even when I couldn’t be.
I guess Scooter was perfect after all.

From my Wife...who misses the sun

This morning the sun is out. It’s a small miracle, I think, as far as miracles go, but it is a miracle. Texas, at least the part that we live in has been epically rained on. A couple of months ago it rained and rained and rained, I looked out into my pasture with it gently sloped hills, cute barn and ample pond and my heart sank. The only animals happy out there were the ducks and they were thrilled because they had all sorts of new, wet places to explore and they could now swim straight from the pond to the barn to get their breakfast.


“If a man comes by in an ark,” I told my husband, “we’re jumping on board.”

That was then, now it’s worse. Can I make a request? Would the person who prayed for rain way back when we had a drought please stop? I need to ride my horses. I need to tip my face to the sky and let the bright rays melt away the gray day blahs. I need to putter around my barn and sweep cobwebs off of the eaves as my little chickens cluck near my feet and scratch the ground. I haven’t been able to let the chickens out of their coop for two weeks! They’re tiny bantam chickens and they have feathers on their feet so if they go out in the mud it sticks to their feathers and makes little cement booties.

I don’t do well without the sun. A day or two of rain and clouds is great and if a thunderstorm comes even better! But what has been happening lately is chronic gloom. If you live in a house with a yard you’ve probably noticed the ground is spongy and you’re most likely tired of the rain too. If you have land and big outside critters your life has revolved around mud…lots of thick, slimy, sticky mud. My horses are covered in it, my boots are covered in it, my jeans are covered in it. I hate mud.

My daughter left to run an errand for me the other day and about one minute after she walked out of the house she called.

“I’m stuck,” she said.
“Where?” I asked.
“In the yard.”
“Well, put it in four wheel drive.”
“Oh.”

We have a huge yard, about an acre, and a small driveway so it’s a task to turn my huge truck around without going off of the concrete. She had backed into to grassy area next to the drive way like we usually do and couldn’t get out.

But the sun is out today and I feel hope. Well, that is I felt hope until my husband flopped down in the chair next to me, pulled out his laptop and announced that snow was in the forecast for the next five days.

“AAAAAAAAAAA….” That’s me pulling my hair out and banging my head on the well padded arm of our sofa. I’m not crazy, I’m not going to hit my head on something hard.

I guess this means I’ll have more time to write.

I don’t do well without the Son.

A burst of speed

There is a point in every parent's life when they go from letting their child win a foot race, to trying desperately not to lose. For me, that point was today.

My seventeen year old daughter and I ran a 5k in Dallas this morning. It was the third organized race we've run together in the past six weeks. She only began distance running this summer, while I've run dozens of triathlons, 10k's, half-marathons, and even a full marathon over the last 10 years. Rachael isn't able to keep pace with me for an entire race yet (I hang back and run with her), but I got a glimpse of the future today.

It was the last quarter mile of the run. The finish line was in sight and the course kicked uphill...way uphill. After plodding along at what seemed like a snails pace for almost three miles, Rachael suddenly took off.

"Isn't that cute," I said to myself. "She wants to race to the finish line."

I shifted into a faster gear and took off after her. In my mind, I easily caught up with her and jogged up the hill. But a funny thing happened on the way to the finish line.

Rachael, all 5'6" and 110 pounds of her, also shifted into a higher gear and kept accelerating.

"No problem," I thought.

But catching up was a problem...a big problem. I thundered up the hill, sucking in huge quantities of air, pushing my legs to go. I was breathing so hard, I'm pretty sure I sucked pebbles and gum wrappers up off the pavement. I wasn't getting any closer.

While I suffered, Rachael continued on, not just running, but dancing a little too. I could hear the tiny sound of music coming from her Ipod earbuds. Britney Spears.

"One two three," Britney sang, "not only you and me. Got one eighty degrees and I'm caught in between."

"Great," I thought, "I don't even know what that means. Why is Britney counting? And caught in between what?" I pictured myself collapsing at the finish line…dying, not of over-exertion, but of exposure to meaningless lyrics.

But the finish line was approaching.

Pushing the incoherent Britney out of my mind, I kicked one last time, catching up to the hip-hopping teenager just before we crossed the finish.

At least, I think I caught up. Maybe she slowed down…on purpose.

Rachael goes off to college next year. It’s a big step in the transition from running the race with her parents, to running it on her own.

We miss her already.  But that’s how life is. She’s supposed to run away at some point.

I just wish she wouldn’t run so fast.

My Problem With Lettuce

I have a problem with lettuce. I know that sounds like a silly thing…but my deep distrust (particularly with the iceburg variety) is well founded. It has nothing to with allergies, nutritional value, pesticides, or food processing techniques. Although, my dad did work in a lettuce packing plant while he was in college, and to this day refuses to eat it. I, on the other hand, have full faith that lettuce is perfectly safe.

No, my problem with lettuce is that it’s sneaky. I consider it the “Eddie Haskell” of the food world. For those of you too young to remember, Eddie Haskell was the neighbor on the “Leave it to Beaver” TV show. He was polite…always said yes m’am and no m’am to Mrs. Cleaver. He was clean cut and dressed well; a model citizen. But Eddie Haskell was trouble. He was responsible for ninety percent of the bad stuff that happened to“The Beaver” and his older brother Wally.

Lettuce is the same way. It looks innocent and manages to fool most people. It’s green, crispy, and cool. But put the stuff in a taco, on a chicken sandwich, or a burger, and trouble is sure to follow.I know this, because as a TV reporter, I eat way too many meals in the front seat of moving vehicles (yes, even while driving). During my lifetime, I have ruined dozens…maybe hundreds…of shirts, ties, and khaki Dockers by dropping food on myself in the car. I used to think the problem was pickles. Then ketchup. Then chopped onions. For a while I was furious at mustard.

I now realize the problem is lettuce. And not just the shredded stuff, although it’s clearly dangerous. Shredded lettuce falls out of anything you put it in…and it’s usually covered with grease, mayonnaise, or ketchup. Only a fool would eat shredded lettuce wearing anything but coveralls.

But what really strikes fear in my heart…are leaves of iceburg lettuce. To put it bluntly, they’re ‘enablers.’ Next time a ketchup covered onion shoots out of a burger and into your lap, consider whether that big slippery chunk of lettuce between the meat and the bun had something to do with it. Chances are you won’t. You’ll curse the onion, never properly blaming the true culprit.

Somewhere in TV land, Eddie Haskell will smile.

Meanwhile, I’ll be the guy in the drive through saying “hold the lettuce.”

WHEN MY DAUGHTER FOUND BRITNEY ON MY IPOD

DALLAS – I was driving my 15-year-old daughter, Rachael, to school the other day. "Do we have to listen to the news?" she asked, already switching the tuner from AM to FM.
"No, you can change the channel," I answered, as if I had any actual say.
After 30 seconds of scanning every station, she remembered nobody plays music in the morning.
"Ugh," she said, digging in her backpack, "I forgot my iPod."
So she scrolled through my iPod to see if by some miracle my musical tastes have changed.
"Slightly Stoopid, ewww."
"G. Love, as if."
"The Cure, puh-leeze."
She kept scrolling.
"Anything but Linkin Park," I said, "not at 8:20 in the morning."
She suddenly stopped scrolling, and shot me what I can only call an "accusatory" look.
"What’s this?"
"What?"
She showed me my own iPod.
"THIS…Do you seriously have Britney Spears on your iPod?"
I tried to use my grownup voice.
"Yes. It’s her new album. It’s surprisingly good."
"Dad," she said earnestly, "Britney Spears is not a good role model, she’s disgusting."
Before I could respond, Linkin Park began destroying my car speakers.
'Supporting a train wreck'It could have just ended there, but it didn’t. That night she waited until the whole family was together in the kitchen to bring it up again.
"Dad downloaded the new Britney Spears album," she said casually.
My 12-year-old daughter, Madison, stifled a laugh.
"You’re kidding," my wife said to me. I suddenly realized where Rachael got her "accusatory" look from. "Why would you give her our money? You’re just supporting a train wreck."
I didn’t have an answer.
"That’s kind of harsh," I said, hoping that would be the end of it.
But it wasn’t. For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been trying to answer that question for myself. It’s literally kept me up at night.
Why did I buy the Britney Spears album? I should mention that I’ve never been a Britney Spears fan. When Rachael was nine years old, she begged me to take her to a concert. I did…it was torture.
And it’s impossible to see anything positive in Spears’ personal life. There’s no need for me to go into the sordid details. If you live in America, you already know about her alleged problems with substance abuse, all-night partying, driving disasters, marital strife and unstable behavior. Most importantly, you know her actions may have endangered her children. She has lost custody of both, and this week a judge suspended her visitation rights indefinitely.
Britney Spears has no one to blame for any of this but herself.
But is it really necessary to enjoy watching her self-destruct?
Hoping for a second chanceIf most of us had a friend or family member in her situation, we’d be grief-stricken. We would pray she gets help, or has a "moment of clarity" and realizes she’s putting herself in jeopardy. A family spokesperson last week publicly asked for Americans to pray for Britney.
"I would really hope that that those who seek God for strength in their life would be interceding for this family," said Lou Taylor on the Today Show.
Instead, people are betting on whether Britney will overdose or die in a car accident. There’s even a website offering a Sony Playstation 3 to the person who picks the date of Britney Spears' death. The paparazzi chase her around to capture every down-spiraling minute.
Have I seen the pictures? Yep.
Read the lurid details? Sure.
Been morbidly entertained? Yes.
Not anymore.
As a person of faith, I believe in second chances, and third, and fourth for that matter. Britney Spears may not deserve it, but it’s not for me to decide. Yeah, I’ll pray for Britney Spears, as naïve as that may sound to some of you, because her family asked.
So, in thinking about it I discovered the real reason I bought Britney Spears’ new album. It’s a symbolic vote for a second chance.
Plus it’s got a beat you can dance to.