Our dog had a pretty rough day at the veterinarian’s office yesterday, so last night I climbed down on the floor to pet her and make her suffer through some of my puppy talk.

When I got up, I noticed something stuck to my sock.

Thank goodness that sticky eyeball wasn’t attached to my other foot, because then I’d have to show you my sock with holes, AND I’d have to tell you that they’re the socks I “borrowed” from an Aunt. See? Those faint lines near the hole are part of her name. It was written across the sock in case she misplaced them at her retirement home.

There’s no doubt about it…my husband is a lucky man.

My nine year old daughter has quite a collection of stuffed dogs. So many dogs, that for Christmas we bought her a REAL dog bed to put in her room. There are Shepherds, Collies, Poodles, Terriers, Huskies, and Bulldogs…just to name a few. The collection is so big that we’ve lost count. But, there is one…just one…that holds a special place in my daughter’s heart. One little dog so dirty and tattered that it’s almost unrecognizable. Her name is Darling, and I think she was a Beagle in her previous life at the Hallmark store.

Sometime in November, when we were cleaning out toy boxes and organizing rooms to make space for Santa’s bounty, Darling got lost. We looked everywhere for her. Furniture was moved, closets were emptied, and toy boxes were thoroughly searched. I had come to the conclusion that my five year old son had probably thrown Darling into a Goodwill bag, but I didn’t dare tell my daughter that.

Last night, just before I tucked her into bed, we made another attempt to locate Darling. We looked under my daughter’s dresser and behind her desk, and I finally told her that I was afraid we had shipped Darling off to Goodwill. Her eyes filled with tears and she said, “NOOOO!” I told her that I just didn’t know where else that dog could be.

Then I asked her if she had ever looked in my room. She and my son watch TV in there sometimes, and I told her it was possible that her ornery little brother could’ve thrown Darling under my bed. So we looked among the shoe boxes, stored-up summer clothes and dust bunnies, but with no luck. Then I looked behind my bed…and, THERE SHE WAS. Lodged between a windowsill and my headboard, crumpled up and barely visible.

When I said, “I found her!”, my little girl dropped the clothes she had been holding and ran over and grabbed her dog. And the tears which had been welling up, freely flowed down her cheeks. She was blubbering with joy, and I was so happy for her that I started crying. A grown woman, crying about a filthy, stuffed dog with spots of fur that are hardened with what is most likely syrup. I never would’ve thought that I’d be happy to see Darling too.

I have mentioned before that our dog is getting old. But, it’s becoming all too clear that she’s completely neurotic as well. Once upon a time, the only things that gave her dread were normal dog-phobias. Things like the vacuum cleaner and garbage trucks. But, her bravery is diminishing with each passing day.

Lately we’ve noticed that she is losing her spunk, because her newest fear is going for a walk. The thing we used to have to spell out…W-A-L-K, because she would attack you with kisses if you said the real thing. For awhile, we even had to spell it backward. But not anymore. Her mania has taken over. It’s not just trash trucks or city buses anymore. If she sees anything bigger than a sedan, her tail goes down and her ears flop over. She begins to shake, and darts around on the end of her leash looking for somewhere…anywhere…to escape the four-wheeled monster.

So, now we have a battle before we can even get her outside in the morning. She knows when my husband grabs her collar off the door that it’s time to go spineless and find a good place to hide.

The other day he found her holed-up under our son’s bed. When he got down on the floor and said her name, she turned her head and faced the other way as if to say, “You can not see me! I am invisible! Go away with your leash and find someone else to torture.” My dog…the only one on the block who wishes she she could really be a ghost for Halloween.

My dog is driving me crazy. She sheds so much fur that I don’t know how she can bear the cool evenings we’ve been having. I half expect to roll over in bed and see her snuggled up beside me saying, “Hey! Quit taking all the covers already!” Her fur comes off in such quantities that I never want to pet her, or let anyone else pet her. I find myself yelling at guests, “Stay above the collar! Stay above the collar!” so as not to find a pile of yellow fluff floating around the room, inevitably landing on someone’s black pants.

Secondly, she has some serious odor lately. Flat out STANK. I think it’s part dog breath, part stagnant pond water. We do our best to keep her from it, but she can occasionally stray and manage a dip in the park’s green water with a film on top. Not to mention her gas, which is so bad that it’s become audible in her old age. It used to be that if we saw her get up and sneak slyly away, an aroma like no other would follow. It was so bad that she would actually leave the room. But now she’s old, and she simply lays there and lets the dog vapor linger around her…and all around the room. If only people could see us watching TV in the evening with our shirts pulled up to cover our mouths and noses. We don’t dare breathe that toxic air.

But, what I find most disgusting is that whenever I let her outside, she delights in eating squirrel poop, or rabbit poop, or whatever animal leaves those tiny turds in our yard. She will meander over to the ivy under our tree, find a spot and literally dig in. She will bury her teeth in the dirt, get a mouthful, and begin to chomp, chomp, chomp. I can’t even bear to watch without gagging.

The last dog I had not only ate other animal’s waste, but she rolled in it. She once squirmed around in fresh dog poo and was completely covered from the tip of her nose to her shoulders. Because it was a frigid winter day, and because I was a moron, I decided to put her in the bathtub to rinse her off. I pulled the curtain shut and turned on the shower full blast. I then opened the curtain to pull the removable shower head off so I could get under her neck. But when I did that, she did the soaked-dog-shake and wet poo was flung to the walls, floor, ceiling…everywhere. Crevices I didn’t even know existed were speckled with dripping feces.

Now that I think about it, maybe I should be grateful for what I have now.