I spin. It's what I do when "the moment" becomes too much for me to process internally. I mean really important moments like when my frisbee is about to be launched - flung at high speed toward the horizon and only I have the athletic ability to snatch it from the air before it disappears forever. Or when a car comes down our driveway from the street. One of my boys or my human parents will be very disappointed if I don't come out to greet them immediately. But I need a person to OPEN THE BACK DOOR. I've spun up to seven times in anticipation of that door opening. Hurry up! I get dizzy. People should play more frisbee, spin frequently and let people they care about know how happy they are to see them. Spin today and see for yourself.

DiDi's dog wash - I give it two stars

It was Sunday morning, a time when all the dogs in town drag their owners over to a place called Swan Pond. It's pretty funny watching the owners as their coffee cups slop all over the place due to SLJ. That's a medical term for severe leash jerking. I keep looking for swans but have yet to see one. I'll keep you posted. I got really muddy. It wasn't my fault, it was Ginger's. She likes to run through water and mud and other yucky stuff. I don't like that (I do but don't tell anyone). I got dirty enough that I was taken to an official dog washing facility. I was pretty good sport about it all. A lot of dirt and grit came flying out from between my toes - even I was impressed. It actually felt pretty nice to get all that gunk off my beautiful, shiny, perfectly curly brown coat. I spent most of the day looking at myself in a big mirror. I am beautiful.

Sunday's best

Shelby loves Sundays. After an early morning walk it's normally back to bed for a quick nap with "Sunday Morning" as background noise. Then comes the best hour of the day for what we call "Dog Fight Club Park", an unofficial weekly gathering of Riverside dogs in all shapes and sizes and their owners in Swan Pond. Swan Pond isn't a pond anymore but serves as a natural overflow during very rainy periods for the Des Plaines River where it makes a 90 degree bend right near the swinging bridge. Most weeks it's a huge, dry open space surrounded by trees. On snowy Sunday mornings it's shared space with young sledders who find the gentle slope of the embankments a good proving ground for more ambitious efforts when they grow up. But for about sixty minutes each Sunday morning the area is teeming with dogs, released from leashes, running in every direction and proving over and over again that no one breed has the corner on "ADD Dogitis". Shelby's small in comparison with many of the contestants but shows heart most of the time. She must be paying attention when football is on TV since she's got the "quarterback slide" down perfectly. Whenever she's about to be hammered by a defensive end-sized competitor, she dives to the ground and presents her submissive side. Other dogs must watch the games as well since there's never been a flag for a late hit.

Look, I'm blogging!

But who is reading it? I'm sure this question goes through the mind of almost every blogger, especially at the start. I've been fortunate to have actually made a living as a writer during periods of my life. Of course writing Sears ads about gutters and downspouts or, worse yet, a man's suit that you could actually put in the washing machine (I named it "The Wash 'n Flair Suit" and have apologized for it countless times) isn't exactly soul satisfying but it did help buy my first little house. Which led to my second bigger one and then my third now too large for us house. It's the house where the little brown dog lives. She's curled up on a way-to-large-for-her dog cushion that belonged to her much larger brown predecessor, listening to me clack away on my laptop. A southern girl almost a year old, I was concerned with her ability to deal with a Chicago winter. 2009-10 has been a good litmus test and she's passed with flying colors. I'm relieved since walking a dog wearing a plaid coat and strange little paw galoshes would be tough.