Sunday, July 15, 2018

The Joy of Vacationing in the Mountains


I am pleased to announce that Bienvenue Press has chosen this blog to run as part of their "Front Porch" series.   This is the second time they've selected one of my submissions for their website, and I am tickled pink! Enjoy.

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Lord Banjo makes the front page

Lord Banjo is tap dancing!  Okay, okay, maybe not, but he is awfully darned excited that he has a front page story in the Dunwoody Dispatch, one of our local papers!  Check it out to read the full story about my 4-legged son.




Thursday, June 28, 2018

DogSpeak: Not the way I wanted to start my summer

originally published in the Highlands Newspaper



Mum says she, Dad, and plenty of their friends start the summer doing this, but being in good company doesn’t make me feel any better.  What is “this?” Dieting, or should I say being forced to go on a diet.

This unfortunate turn of events came about when we visited the vet for bath day.  Mum always weighs me to be sure I haven’t gained any weight.  “Omigosh,” Mum exclaimed, “Milord has gained five pounds.” You may recall this concern about my excess weight began with the Royal Critter Sitter, Miss Beverly, who once declared the Royal Pooch needed to lose ten pounds.  She even went so far as to say folks needed to be able to feel my ribs. She and the Royal Parents placed me on strict rations plus one-two daily walks until finally, I lost the weight. That feat took most of one summer. Guess I should have kept quiet instead of bragging in an earlier column about being the only one in the family able to keep weight off.

I hear people diet to kick off the summer because they want to look good in their summer outfits, especially their swimsuits.  I have no intention of wearing a swimsuit nor anything except my fuzzy suit, as Dad calls it. Yes, I also wear my royal robe, but it’s loose with a stretchy gold belt.  So, why must I lose weight?

Allegedly—I’m not sure I buy it—as a mature Royal Pooch, I must take care of my aging joints.  Carrying too much weight puts a strain on my knees and hips. What I don’t understand is how the powers that be determined I had any issues with my joints. Collusion, conspiracy, call it what you will, I wasn’t happy the first time the topic came up, and I’m not happy now. Sure, my legs shake a bit, and I’m a bit slower getting up from the floor, and I don’t exactly bound up the stairs these days, but I’m still darned perky.

Mum claims Dad was darned perky right up until he required two knee replacements. I vaguely recall his talking about his achy knees and making excuses not to walk me. I even remember the nice man who came to the house to make sure Dad exercised. I, however, have never once complained about my joints.  No way anyone is replacing my knees.  I have perfectly fine knees, and I’m very good about taking my glucosamine treats to keep ‘em healthy.

Mum is adamant and says we must ensure I continue to have fine knees because she can’t see me doing physical therapy.  Hey, I walk to the food dish, up and down the stairs to Mum’s office, and around the neighborhood with my Dad. What more could be necessary? According to Mum, another bout of dieting.

She’s a bit of a workout fanatic who watches her weight—watches it go up and down five pounds annually, she says. That means there’s no way she’s going to change her mind about my diet. I can tell from the precise ½ cup of dog food in my dish that any debate about my knees and food intake has ended. I’m not giving up yet, though.  I’m considering jumping into the car to accompany Mum to the gym and yoga class. Do you think she’d cut me some slack if I started lifting weights and doing downward dog?