The Baby Gene

There I am, reading this book about how to train the perfect puppy in just seven days, and I am absolutely salivating. Not that I'm thinking of getting a puppy, mind you. After losing my sweet Lucy, my heart is still healing, plus I don't think my little old man, Elvis, could handle the stress of a newcomer just yet. No, this book is for an article I'm writing for The San Francisco Chronicle, about, well, how to train the perfect pup.

But oh, the pictures are getting to me.

I lust after puppies the way most women lust after newborns. Never have I stuffed a pillow under my shirt and admired my profile, pretending to be pregnant. Never have I conjured up fantasy babies with fantasy names, like Oliver or Tara. When menopause kicked in and I lost the ability to conceive, never did I bid a sad farewell to the ghost baby I'd never know, the one with my eyes and his chin.

I'm pretty sure there was a happy dance about no more periods, and perhaps a Kotex-shredding party, but there were definitely no tears. Seems I was born without that baby gene.

Not so for pups.

I find puppy breath intoxicating. I love their soft little growls, their sweet fuzzy fur, and even their weak attempts to bite me with their microscopic needle teeth. I can't resist the charming, clumsy, innocent antics of a puppy, and I'm not alone: there's a reason why Animal Planet's Puppy Bowl, held each Superbowl Sunday, is such a resounding hit.

But when I'm ready to open my heart to a new dog, it won't be a pup, but another ex-racer greyhound. Because, as my sister consoled me while I was sobbing over Lucy, "Somewhere out there is a racing greyhound, living in a crate, neglected and unloved. And on the day this dog retires, he is destined for the best life ever when you adopt him."

She's right. When that day comes, I'll be charmed by my new dog's discovery of life outside the racetrack. I'll be enthralled by his newfound delight over squeaky toys and treats, and will melt under the tidal wave of instant affection that greyhounds are known for. I'll overlook the inevitable accidents in the house, exhibit a patience hitherto unseen when he chews my slippers or climbs on the sofa, and will glow with excitement, adoration and pride over the new love that has entered my heart.

Just like a typical doting mother. Which makes me think, maybe I do have the baby gene. Even if my preference leans towards the four-legged variety.

All My Children

"What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us."

~Helen Keller

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

Actually, it was a cool and misty eve, but whatever. I was curled up on the sofa, sipping a chocolate martini and nursing a broken heart. My DirectTV receiver/DVR had gone the way of the Big Sleep, taking with it two years worth of recorded movies. This unexpected turn of events put me behind the eight-ball with nothing to watch.

I was, indeed, a dame in distress.
What to do, what do to? Fraught with despair, I took a gander at a book loaned to me by this good egg I know, a fella whose literary recommendations I think I can trust. Or can I? I'm a sucker for them cats with the innocent mugs; they're always the first to lead me astray.

Not that I'm an easy mark, mind you. But on this particular night I was a desperate sister with nothing to watch and nothing to read; except that is, for some fluff of a book that's been lying 'round my joint collecting dust like a drunk collects giggle juice. A faded little paperback titled, "Eat Pray Love." Ya probably never heard of it.
Instead, I pick up my pal's recommendation; a worn out dingus titled, "Farewell, My Lovely" by Raymond Chandler. I wrap my mitts around the book and start reading.
Before I know it, my pretty little mug is buried deep within the pages, like some poor palooka in a wooden kimono. I find myself lost in the shady underground world of the 1940s, cavorting with coppers, gum-shoes, grifters and goons. Drifting through smoke-filled saloons replete with stoolies, snitches, and the occasional stiff.

And any thoughts about my dead DVR are soon given the bum's rush. That heap of junk can swim with the fishes for all I care, because this tomato's found somethin' better to do on this dark and stormy night.
Or cool and misty eve. Whatever.