This year, you’ve established your need to be near one of us almost all the time. The exception is when we’re playing cribbage or reading upstairs. Then you get bored and go hop up on the bed. If we sneak in to look at you, you get excited but don’t want to show it. So the only thing you move is your tail, in a rapid-fire thump-thump-thumping on the bedspread.

The bed is pretty much your favorite spot. You love “reading” with us. In fact, when we come home with a new book from the library, we have to sneak it into the bedroom so you don’t see it. Otherwise, you’ll jump up and down on the bed and nip at it.

We recently got you a whiteboard where we write goofy sayings “for” you. Every morning you like to watch me write on the board and then you trot proudly next to me as I display it in your room.

We’ve been lax with your training this year, but you have picked up a few new tricks. You know to Wait while we hurriedly make the bed before you jump up on it to look out the window. You also know how to shake with your Other Paw and how to Stand, which makes you look like an adorable begging prairie dog.

Once, when the pet store was out of your fancy-pants food, we changed to a cheaper brand. We planned to change back, but after months of having to watch over you to make sure you ate your dinner, you’ve begun pushing our hands out of the way to devour it. So we kept buying it. We don’t even have to put dog gravy on it anymore. So that’s why, when you do go over to the cabinet where the gravy is hidden and give us a meaningful look, we’ll give you some. Because you only ask every few weeks.

Sunny and you will cuddle together sometimes. If you’re busy with a bone and Sunny hops up on my lap, when you jump up you’re careful not to squash her and will lay awkwardly to make sure she’s comfy.

You’re still not sure about Abby. She meows angrily whenever she sees you, but other times you can sniff her right in her face and it’s only until she turns and sees you that she gets mad. The only shared space you guys have is the bed. You’ll share it nicely, although you always look nervous, like you’re thinking, “This is a trap, right?”

You are such a nester. You used to wedge yourself into the cat bed until we finally got you your own. No matter where you are, you roll yourself into the tightest circle possible, sometimes picking up your blanket in your teeth and grunting until you get your nest just right. Sometimes you get so mad that you can’t get everything perfect, and you lie down with an exasperated grunt and glare at us laughing at you.

You love to wrestle with Jason. He’ll get you all hyped up until you run around the room as fast as you can while growling. It’s the funniest thing in the world, that running-growling sound. Sometimes you do it outside at night and I have to hide behind something because you run so fast you’ve plowed straight into me.

You also love to jump onto Jason’s back. It’s the weirdest thing: he leans over just a bit and TA-DA! you’re sitting on his back with the most disinterested look on your face, like, “What’s the big deal?”

I’m so glad we have a big yard. It makes us happy to watch you sprint at full speed from one end to another. There’s always a squirrel or rabbit to chase, and you still harbor some unnatural resentment toward robins. A few weeks ago, you were chasing a squirrel and it was taunting you from the top of the fence. You showed off your fantastic leaping ability, and the squirrel uttered a surprised squawk and rolled off backwards. Your expression was smug.

You love the dog park. The last time we were there you ran directly up to a Great Dane. You always seek out the largest dogs. You want to run and it doesn’t matter if you’re the dog being chased or if you’re chasing them. If a few dogs get into a fight, you’ll come over after it’s done and start barking at them. Then you’ll turn to the humans and bark like you’re tattling.

You still bark at people sometimes, although it’s harder to predict when. At a party this summer there were about 40 people you didn’t know and you only barked at the first 2 people you saw. After that, you were fine. When we were camping, you let all kinds of strangers pet you (and even approached them first) but then inexplicably barked at an elderly gentleman later.

You were attacked by the neighbor’s pit bull this spring and after being in a rush to get back inside whenever you heard her, you now bark and growl proactively at her and stay in the yard as long as you want.

You’re still scared when we cook on the stove. If we’re just using the toaster oven or the microwave, you’re OK. But if we’re cooking on the stovetop or baking something, you run downstairs and shiver. I’d like to blame our oven’s ability to set off the smoke detector whenever we open the door, but it’s something else. And it breaks our hearts. We’ve had you longer than the year old you were when we got you, and for some reason, this fear persists. I want to know what happened to make you do that, but I’m also afraid to know why. The good thing is that as soon as we come downstairs with our plates, you’re up from your hiding spot to greet us at the entryway like an attentive waiter.

You are really the sweetest dog ever. We love you, buddy. You make us so happy.

Naturally, yesterday I decided to mow the lawn because what better way to enjoy my week off between jobs than to die of heatstroke, right? I got the lawnmower started on the very first try, unlike my usual experiences, and attacked the front yard right away, which was breezy and shaded and all-around wonderful. I finished by 9:00 a.m., feeling virtuous and heroic and only slightly sweaty and less-than-fresh smelling.

Then I moved to the backyard. Even though I had prepared myself by wearing my frozen neck chiller and having two ice-cold bottles of water ready, it was horrible. There was no shade, it was dusty and dirty, and because I was covered head to toe in a fine sheen of sweat, I amassed an impressive collection of grass clippings all over my body. Also, my personal scent became decidedly “funky.” When I took a water break at one point, I was panting like a dog. Meanwhile, my own dog was sitting in the air-conditioned comfort of the house, lying in a sun spot with Sunny, like this:

(Shorty lies there until he gets so warm he has to jump up, panting, and sprint to his water bowl so he can rehydrate himself and resume his post.)

When I finally finished all the yardwork (mowing, weed trimming, weed spraying, weed pulling, and flower watering), I had spent nearly three and half hours outside. (Although at least half an hour of that was spent swearing at the weed trimmer, as it “trimmed” for about 10 seconds before randomly unspooling the trimmer string to tangle itself into a complicated snarly mess.)

Worth it, though:

Today it is beautiful out. The humidity has dropped what feels like 1,000%, and of course I’m planning on staying inside all day. I did, however, decide to water the lawn this morning, and as I set the sprinkler in an optimum spot, I saw a mound of dirt wriggling. As I watched, horrified, the mound grew bigger and bigger. I ran to our nearby woodpile, muttering, “You have GOT to be kidding me!” and grabbed the longest, pointiest stick available. When I got to the mound I jammed the stick in as hard as I could. I didn’t feel like I speared anything, which was probably a good thing because I’m not sure how I would’ve explained to Jason why I abandoned a giant pointy murder weapon to remain sticking out of the middle of our yard. Stupid moles/voles/gophers – I hate them! Now they’re doing their damage in broad daylight, less than a week after we sprayed our entire yard with something that’s supposed to make their food source taste bitter. The only thing that’s bitter is me, apparently. Die, rodents!

Meanwhile, Abby is the only sane thing in this place, sleeping downstairs near the path of the air conditioning vent.

While Sunny is toasting her belly on the refrigerator:

And Shorty is suspiciously keeping an eye on his bone while lying in yet another sun spot:

“Let’s see if you’re OK buddy, all right?” I said, as I assessed his saliva-dampened coat and dirty paws. I briefly looked him over and didn’t see any obvious, serious wounds, although there were some pale streaks of blood along his back. But Shorty already wanted to go back outside. The dog who shivers uncontrollably every time we bring out the pots and pans to cook on the stove apparently had already forgotten about the incident. Since he hadn’t peed yet, I made sure our gate was shut and that Mita was gone before opening the patio door.

Shorty immediately ran to the spot where they had wrestled, peed heartily on it and jogged his way around the yard like normal. Meanwhile, I was trying to calm myself down. I heard someone calling out to me and realized that the neighbor was knocking on our front door. I called her over to our gate, while Shorty barked his head off. For once, I didn’t stop him. She apologized profusely, over and over, saying that they would pay for any vet visit. She also assured me (before I could even ask) that Mita was up to date on her shots. I told her Shorty was too, and I’d examine him more closely when I took him inside, but that he seemed all right. She told me Mita had some blood in her mouth, but that it seemed to be hers, and wanted me to make sure Shorty was all right. She apologized again and reiterated that we could send them any vet bill. She obviously felt terrible.

I don’t know much about how they keep Mita in their yard, because while it’s fenced in on three sides, one side is open (although that is not the side Mita came from). I thought they kept her tied to a stake unless they were outside with her, but the neighbor (who normally works early in the morning so Mita isn’t outside when I take Shorty out) said she was about to do some training with her (Ed. Note: she’ll need a TON more of that) when she escaped under the crappy gate (which can’t shut properly due to uneven terrain that needs to be shoveled out to be level).

I took Shorty back inside and cleaned him off gently with some dog wipes. His magic, self-cleaning fur had already made the saliva marks disappear, but it took two wipes just to get the dust and dirt off his legs. There were multiple long scratches and scrapes under his belly near his back legs, and a bloody mark on one of his legs, but using the wipe (which would’ve stung) got no reaction from him. Any blood there was had already dried. The blood on his back must’ve been from Mita, because after digging through his fur to check his skin, there was nothing. No puncture wounds, no bite marks. Just scrapes. I checked his mouth and teeth, his chest and even in his neck folds for any hidden injuries and didn’t see anything. I called Jason and told him what happened, and said I thought Shorty didn’t need to see the vet.

Jason will be home early this afternoon, but I might run home during lunch just to check on Shorty. I don’t know what to say to the neighbors the next time I see them. I know they’ve been working and working with Mita and trying to train her, and I know they keep her restrained most of the time. I’m hoping this was just an isolated incident. I don’t want to overreact or jump to conclusions, but I also want to know I’m safe walking my own leashed dog on my own property.

Because Mita?

Is a pitbull.

After keeping a close eye on the dog for the rest of the evening in case there were any, um, laxative effects, we bemoaned the fact that this was our last tube of Parade Lip Balm. We had gotten it from a neighborhood parade we stumbled across the summer we moved into our house – nearly six years earlier. As we watched children climb over each other in the streets for bits and pieces of candy, one float threw something that they totally ignored. Once Jason and I saw what it was, we practically shoved the kids aside to shovel handfuls of glorious lip balm into our pockets. I don’t know what made this particular lip balm so awesome (it was unscented and unflavored), but it made your lips feel great. While I love Burt’s Bees and Chapstick, these plain silver sticks advertising “Orthodontics Ltd” were our favorite.

And Shorty just ate our last one.

Flash forward to a week ago, when I found a surprise tube of parade lip balm in one of our drawers. It was like Christmas! As a surprise to Jason, I put it on his side of the headboard. The very next day, Jason came home, let Shorty out and checked on him after he was suspiciously quiet. He found Shorty on the bed next to the chewed-up tube (which Jason wasn’t even aware existed), and a giant, waxy, oily stain polluting the tranquility of our blue comforter.

When I got home, Jason grimly reported the crime. It took two washings to get the stains out. The dog stared guiltily. Our tubes of lesser lip balm were banished to a dresser, away from canine snouts.

Barely two days later, Jason left a new lip balm on his headboard thinking it would be safe since it was a totally different brand and smelled like apples. (Jason doesn’t normally use apple-scented lip balm, just so you know. The Man Factor increases because it was a giveaway from Fox Sports Net and is emblazoned with the Minnesota Twins logo.)

When I got home, I saw that Jason was downstairs running on our treadmill. I went upstairs and found Shorty trying to nose the decimated lip balm cap under the bed. Once again, there were stain spots all over our comforter, which was about to be washed for the third time in less than 10 days. It’s never been so clean.

So now no lip balm is safe in our house, and if I wake up at three in the morning needing some (which happens very often), I can’t get any without getting out of bed and waking everyone up, all thanks to this guy:

What? I like moisturized lips.

We have not yet had much opportunity to incorporate FUN! into our year yet (besides New Year’s Day, which we spent bowling and playing cards and eating a Bucket of Tots with Jason’s parents and some friends after having to scrap our original plans due to the weather – that’s right: A Bucket of Tots) because both of our Workplaces are made up of people who like to give us more work because we “can be counted on to get the job done.” That is all fine and dandy and full of back-handed accolades, but it essentially boils down to this: some people we work with are procrastinators. Therefore, we are being punished by getting their work. It is sad that Jason is positively thrilled about only working 9.5 hours a day (when it’s usually 11-12), and I am elated about leaving at 5:00 (after working through lunch, as per the new normal. In fact, I just got interrupted mid-soup-spoonful by someone wanting something). It is crazy-busy for both of us, but we’re doing the best we can right now and not acting on our first impulse, which is to swear and punch people (me) and dramatically quit our jobs (also me). Instead, I am angrily scratching giant, highlighted Xs on all the calendar workdays this year that make me want to quit (tally so far: one).

The pets are helping by being FUN! and extra adorable. Shorty and Jason have been practicing this circus act where Jason leans over and Shorty jumps onto his back. Every once in awhile, I’ll be commanded to “Come here!” and enter the room to see my husband standing upright with our dog standing calmly and smugly on top of his shoulders, all, “What up?” Before I know it, we will have a trapeze in our living room. Or a cannon.

Abby has been enjoying the extra food we give her in an attempt to fatten her up (galloping toward me like a lunatic when I announce it’s time for “Second Breakfast!”) and has increased her desire for hunting water in the wild by no longer waiting for me to exit the shower before licking the walls. The first time this happened, I was caught completely unaware, and when, in my pre-contact blurriness I saw a large gray-ish creature under the shower curtain, I (logically, no?) assumed a giant raccoon had somehow gotten into the bathtub. (With that explanation, you will agree that my reaction was totally appropriate.)

Sunny is, well, Sunny. 95% demented and uncontrollable and 5% extra snuggly and cute. She has finally discovered the top of the dryer, where she sits in a blissful, toasty stupor when we do laundry, but the rest of the time she is loudly demanding food by meowing relentlessly. In fact, she meows, moves to another area, meows again, and then moves to yet another area to meow. Only the meows all sound different. It’s the feline equivalent of throwing your voice in an attempt to convince us multiple cats are begging for food. Part of me wonders if there is something wrong with her, because she will steal Abby’s food, Shorty’s food, and even sit on a hot stove burner to score our dinner leftovers if we don’t take preventive measures.