What's wrong with dirt...

What's wrong with dirt?  I don't get it.  I really don't!

I go frolicking about in a bit of dirt and Myrtle gets all kinds of upset.  Sharp words are flung my way and her hands are none too gentle as she picks me up and holds my paws beneath running water in the sink.  To add insult to injury, Myrtle doesn't give me a bath when my paws turn black; she just washes the dirt off of them and leaves me with damp paws.  It's been practically forever since my last bath.  SIGH.

She didn't take a photo today, but here's a shot from a while ago.  My paws don't look that bad, do they?

Today, Myrtle spent a long time attacking the ground with this claw-like tool. All the while, she was muttering up a storm.  By the time she was done, the ground that used to hold the Rose of Sharon bushes was turned up and crumbled--all the way from the lilac tree, past the bird bath, and on over beneath the ornamental magnolia tree. 

I was plumb exhausted from chasing the Fearsome Beast out of the yard, so I spent a while resting in my favorite spot on the top of the back steps.  If you look closely, you can see one of my outdoor chew toys.  I try to bring them in the house, but Myrtle doesn't like me shredding them inside.  I don't know why, though....

Part way through her labors, I got to thinking she looked mighty lonely over there, attacking the ground and muttering to herself.  A person walking by might think she was a tad off her rocker, so I thought I would be quite helpful and join her.  The dirt was all soft and fluffy, so I rolled around in it and helped her attack the dirt.  Much to my surprise, Myrtle was not pleased at all with my help.  In fact, some shouting was involved.  While I disagree, Myrtle seems to think I should have known she would not have preferred my help.  But, I ask you, if we do practically everything else together, how am I supposed to know mucking about in the dirt is NOT something she wants to share with me? [A bit stingy of her, too, my way of thinking!]

Well, we've both been recovering on the couch.  The first photo is one of my favorite places to nap.  I find Mrytle to be a tad like a heating pad, which helps since she keeps the house so cold.  The second is why it is that I think Myrtle is just swell: she doesn't mind my stretching a bit even when I am atop her torso.

Even though Myrtle has some strong opinions about dirt, she is a good mate.  Even though Myrtle has very high expectations about my remembering everything she thinks a puppy should know, she is a good puppy mom.  Even though she still refuses to share her bacon, I think I have it pretty good. After all, someone who lets you nap to your heart's desire and joins you much of the time is my kind of buddy!  And, well, she did forgive me...eventually...for eating her eggs and bacon.

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

Sometimes, she just doesn't seem to get it...

Here it is.  The Ferocious Beast.  All these months later, Myrtle still allows this MONSTER to live in our back yard despite the fact that it is getting bigger by the minute!  Why?

I mean, it is not like the thing is cute or anything like that.  I am the one who is fluffy and soft and irresistibly adorable.  I am the one who snuggles Myrtle and kisses her. I am the one who keeps her company when she is sad and who crawls in her lap when she is afraid.  I am the one who makes her burst into laughter (though I still do not understand why she does so whenever I am tending to my babies).  I am the one who sleeps with her and presses my back to her when she has such terrible dreams. I am the one who is even willing to share her dinner with her and lick her plate clean so that washing it is easier.  So, why in the world would she let this MENACE continue to live with us?

I just don't think she gets it.  Or, to be fair, maybe I don't get Myrtle.

Today was much the same of late.  I make one tiny mistake indoors, and she gets all bent out of shape.  She weeps. I curl up in her lap.  She works on the computer. I try to help.  She rebuffs my every attempt. I have to listen to her wail about being unable to figure out how to do something in her design program. I try to help again, she actually raises her voice at me and sets me on the farthest end of the couch.

Why does Myrtle not want my help?  I am absolutely certain I could effect a better work around than she eventually did.  Plus, well...I just seem to have more fun plucking away at the keys than she does lately.

Myrtle also took offense at my willingness to clean her plate while she was up from the couch.  Just because it still had some fried egg and bacon on it didn't mean that it was not yet time to clean it.  After all, I am just a puppy.  How in the world am I supposed to know she wasn't done?  When I have a bowl of food before me, I don't stop to even breathe until it is all gone.  Myrtle?  She nibbles here and there for what seems like hours before she finishes.

Yep!  Really, the truth of the matter is that I simply don't get Myrtle.  I guess I should be taking better notes or something.  Only when's a fellow supposed to get his rest?  Today, all those computer, poop, and dinner shenanigans means I've only gotten in four naps thus far.  Sheesh!

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

About my name...

Already I have gotten a lot of questions about my name.  I don't know why.  Amos is a perfectly acceptable name for a puppy dog, don't you think?  Amos Adams.  Kind of cool, if you ask me.  Rolls off your tongue pretty easily, doesn't it? 

Now, if I were a photographer, say of black and white work, it might be a problem.  But I'm pretty sure when I grow up I'll be something different.  So, I'm not at all worried about that.

So, Amos.

Well, it is kind of a weighty name.  I mean, most adorable puppies get cute names, right?  My Aunt M was campaigning for Cloud or Snowball.  Myrtle liked the idea a bit, but she really wanted a name that meant something to her and would mean something to me.  So, she named me Amos.

She named me Amos from one of her favorite passages from the Living Word.  [We're a confessional Lutheran household, so it's all about Word and Sacrament around here.]

"In that day I will raise up the fallen booth of David,

And wall up its breaches;
I will also raise up its ruins
And rebuild it as in the days of old;

That they may possess the remnant of Edom
And all the nations who are called by My name,"
Declares the LORD who does this.

"Behold, days are coming," declares the LORD,
"When the plowman will overtake the reaper
And the treader of grapes him who sows seed;
When the mountains will drip sweet wine
And all the hills will be dissolved.

"Also I will restore the captivity of My people Israel,
And they will rebuild the ruined cities and live in them;
They will also plant vineyards and drink their wine,
And make gardens and eat their fruit.

"I will also plant them on their land,
And they will not again be rooted out from their land
Which I have given them,"
Says the LORD your God.

You see, God has finished telling Israel about her captivity, the trials and tribulations to come--and, man, were they rough times--but then He makes this promise...that one day...the riches of blessings will be so great that the mountains will drip sweet wine.  Can you imagine such a time?  Of course, maybe it should have been the mountains will be covered with kibble or treat bones or such.  But, hey, I cannot really argue with how God wanted to write His Message.

Myrtle, my doggie mom, well, she needs some hope.  She's had a lot of rough times.  So, Myrtle needs the idea of riches beyond measure.  And she needs a new beginning.  I'm her new beginning, her promises of the riches to come.  It's a hard name to live up to, but I think that it fits.  At least, I sure am working hard at pouring out riches upon her with all my kisses and snuggling and holding on to her.

Of course, as I said, it's all about Word and Sacrament around here. So, Myrtle reads about lots and lots and lots of wine and it gets her started thinking about the Lord's Supper, which gets her thinking about forgiveness.  That makes her happy, nearly gleeful.  I like a gleeful Myrtle. Sometimes, when she's playing and laughing with me, I see this look in her eyes when she calls out my name.  Her voice takes on a special note and an eagerness to tumble me about washes over her.  It's then I know she's thinking about why she named me Amos.  It's then when the two of us have the best time.  A gleeful Myrtle is a contagious thing.

Today, I was feeling kind of gleeful myself.  You see, I think Myrtle was feeling kind of guilty about refusing to bring down any extra pillows for me.  At least it sure seems like she was...for she piled high all three pillows for me so that I could have one spectacular nap!

Okay, I'll be honest about this.  Before I was napping on this bed from heaven, Myrtle was.  But that guilt surely must have been what made her not put the pillows back when she awoke so that I might enjoy them!

What do you think?  Does it look like I'm enjoying them?  SIGH.  I sure love me some pillows!

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

Pillows, pillows, and even more pillows...

Myrtle keeps many, many pillows on our bed.  In fact, there are two more she keeps on the floor by the far side of the bed where people peaking in the room cannot see them.  At night, they are no longer on the floor, but rather in the bed with us.

Pillows!  I LOVE down pillows!  Did I mention that?  They are all down pillows.  If I am counting rightly, we share eight pillows.  Ah, down pillows!

Myrtle sleeps with pillows beneath her head and beneath both arms and both legs.  That makes six.  I am not sure the why of the other two pillows, but I do not object.  Most often, they are at the head of the bed and make a perfect nest for me to curl up in when she leaves take her medication in the early hours of the morning.

At first, Myrtle tried to move me out of my nest.  But didn't I say that I am a smart fellow?  When she tried this, I would play dead.  All limp and heavy like that, she was hard pressed to move me.  Both the weight of me and my adorable floppy body.  If I could figure out how to fake a snore, she wouldn't have even tried.  [Myrtle loves my snoring.  That's the truth. I oft hear her say so!]  Now, when I get my change to claim the nest, she just curls herself around me and rests her head upon the edges of my nest.  Hey, I just thought of something, my claiming the nest means that she's not sleeping along one edge of the bed.  We are, in fact, both in the middle of the bed.

Oh, I just love those all pillows!  SIGH.

I have pillows on my mind because today Myrtle brought down two pillows from the bed when we woke up.  I didn't know such a thing was possible!  My beloved pillows can leave the bedroom?  Now, this might have something to do with the fact that I dragged her out of bed at 9:05 AM, which, for Myrtle, is an ungodly hour of the morning.  If this is the case, perhaps I should get her out of bed early every day? Tempting...but...she needs her rest.  My Myrtle is tired all the time. I wouldn't want to make her more tired.

At first, she tossed them on the GREEN chair and the four of us snuggled away.  The GREEN chair is amazingly comfortable in and of itself, but being able to make a nest with the pillows and the crook of Myrtle's arm was sublime!  We both got some good snoozing in that way.

After she got up for the second time this day, she moved the pillows to the couch. I think she was thinking she would use them.  But, alas, I have happily been ensconced upon them all day!  They are just like being back with my sisters and brothers--so very comfortable no matter how I drape myself across them!  Would you believe I only spent 5 minutes on the back of the couch?  I do like looking about the window so that I am primed to announce each person who dares to cross in front of our house. But the call of the pillows was too great!

I wonder, what would it take to get Myrtle to bring some pillows down with us every morning?  I wonder, what would it take for her to bring all eight of them down?  Can you imagine the wonder of that??

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!

Again? Sigh...

Myrtle and I had a strong difference of opinion today.  You can guess the topic.

She is rather fierce when her ire is raised against me.  Mostly, she gets really sad about my misplaced deposits.  Try as she might, though, she cannot hold out against my onslaught of nuzzling and kissing.  No matter how angry she is, all I really have to do is remind her that I am her biggest fan.  That does the trick.

Tell me, what's so wrong with hanging off the edge of the couch to take care of business?

The best part of today was getting to play with the applesauce dish again.  You know, a fellow breaks one single dish and suddenly he cannot be trusted with anything anymore! But today, despite my personal needs failures, she let me grab the applesauce dish after I had wiped it clean and chew on it for a while.

I am not sure how, but it fell on the ground again.  Sharp words came out of Myrtle's mouth, but the bowl did not break.  We both forgot about it until after we went outside for a potty break and came back to play on the floor for a while.

You might think I like playing with my balls and my babies because they are fun toys.  In truth, I like playing with my balls and my babies because doing so makes Myrtle laugh.  I love her great big guffaws. I wish I heard them more.

Of course, I do not know why she finds my play humorous.  Mostly, she laughs at my very serious attempts to hold all my babies in my mouth or carry more than one ball in my mouth at a time.  Babies need to be tended.  Carrying them about with me ensures that they are safe.  And how could I ever choose between them?  Am I supposed to leave baby Hippo behind because baby bumblebee is wanting to remain with me as I visit the kitchen?  And what about baby Lady Bug?  SIGH.  I'm just trying to be a good dad, really, and she laughs at me.

The balls, well, they are just plain fun.  Myrtle has been ill for nearly our whole time together, so I don't blame her for failing to notice that my mouth had grown too big for the teeny weeny balls she had bought me that first day we met.  Fortunately, my beloved Aunt Leslie noticed and brought two these proper-sized, big boy puppy balls.  [I love my Aunt Leslie!]  Myrtle, spotting some that squeaked, bought me three more. I love all five of them. I like to play with all five of them.  So, what's wrong if I am trying to play with all five of them at the same time?

Well, today, while I was chasing after a ball, I spotted the bowl and started playing with it.  In short order, Myrtle was rolling on the floor in laughter.  Now, why she was laughing is beyond me.  I was simply chasing the bowl that kept--for reasons unknown--skittering across the floor.  Never the less, I am happy she was happy. I am happy that I could make her happy.  A happy Myrtle makes for a happy Amos.  A sad Myrtle makes for a sad Amos.  Not sure why.

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off.

Changes...

Don't you think that six months is a bit too soon for changes?  For a puppy who's barely eight months old?  See?  You agree with me.  Want to let Myrtle know that for me?

The ways of her mind are an unfathomable mystery.  Of course, I don't have the time for even easy mysteries, much less complex ones.  So, perhaps I ought not to be proffering my commentary on her mind.  But she does give me a bit of extra angst every now and then trying to figure out what's on her mind.

You see, we've been sleeping together since my first night here.  Oh, she tried to do "the crate thing," as I hear her describe it.  She bought this box with holes on the sides for me.  She told me all about how it was going to be my new sleeping place.  My very one windows.  My own front door.  She extolled its features for a long while, even crawling partway inside and demonstrated how comfortable it would be to curl up for a nap. 

I tried it.  I honestly did.  But every day of my life thus far had included copious amounts of snuggling with one or more of my siblings.  Me draped on them.  They draped on me.  Sometimes I'd go to have a good gnaw on my tail and discover it actually wasn't mine after all.  Mom cuddled with us.  Dad frolicked with us.  But mostly my brothers and sisters all lived in and on and around each other's bodies.  Warm bodies.  Soft bodies.  Snuggly bodies.

Nothing about that crate was warm and soft and snuggly.  Okay, maybe the bottom was sort of soft, but it certainly wasn't warm and snuggly.  I know. I checked it out.  Truly, I did.  Nope.  It was nothing like the sleeping arrangement I had enjoyed for every day of my life thus far.

So, I'm not sure why Myrtle got so distressed over my protestations after she shut me up in the blasted box.  And her upsettedness over the accidents of a personal nature I had during my protestations was clearly uncalled for...if you ask me. 

I protested.  She insisted.  I protested.  She insisted. I protested. She insisted.  Hours later.  I protested.  She finally re-thought that sleeping arrangement and decided that my way of thinking was better.  She brought me up in bed with her.  Warm, soft, and snuggly.  Just the way I like it.  Myrtle seemed to like it, too.

From that first night on, I've been spending my nights happily draped about her person or curled up at her back.  Only now that's all changing. 

We had this great system worked out.  She stayed on her side of the bed, well, third of the bed, and I used up the other two thirds.  Mostly, I needed used the space on the other side of her back, either to curl up there or lie alongside as I draped my neck across hers so we could be cheek to cheek.  Now, that space is gone!

For some reason or another, Myrtle's decided to sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed.  She sleeps cross ways, even.  Well, she intends to sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed.  In reality, she ends up back in her assigned third.  Just when I belive it safe to take up my proper position and settle down curled up at her back, she awoke and lumbered back to the middle of the bed.  This happens many times during the night.

I don't know why she bothers. I don't know why she thinks I'm ready for change.  I'm not.  And from what I've seen, neither is she.  I say, let's go back to the way things were. 

But...whoever listens to me?

I did come up with a great idea though.  I figured were she bone tired, Myrtle might not move around so much, might not be so determined to sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed.  Actually, my idea kills two birds with one stone.

You see, Myrtle's been sleeping later and later in the day. At first, she awoke between 11 and 12 noon.  Eventually, she was slumbering until 2 or 3 in the afternoon.  I know she's determined to be a hermit, but I actually like company.  So, I started sweet talking her out of bed by 11 in the morning. 

Yep, I'm that smart of a fellow.  My soft sell works every single time.  A nuzzle here, a kiss there.  Stretching my body alongside hers before creeping across her body to rest my head on her chest and bat my rather adorable eyelashes at her.  A gentle gnaw on her thumb as I drag it to my silky soft hair to prompt her to start rubbing my belly.   Remember?  Slow and steady wins the race.  No matter how much she'd rather be in bed, Myrtle eventually bursts into laughter, sits up, tumbles me about the bed as she greets me good morning.

So, my duel-fold plan is this:  1) get her out of bed early even when she's been up late so she'll be more tired at night and perhaps seek a change in her life that doesn't involve interrupting my sleep and 2) get her out of bed when other folks are out of bed so that she might could be available for anyone who might want to be making friends with her. Check that...anyone who might want to be making friends with her so that they can have some snuggle time and play time with me.

Brilliant, eh?

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off.

What was she thinking...

Myrtle obviously does not remember what it is like to be a puppy.  Okay, to be fair, she doesn't remember a lot of things and weeps over that fairly regularly.  But she ought to at least give me a little slack simply because I am a puppy.

Puppies have it rough.  Our whole lives revolve around trying to learn new things. And there's almost too much to learn to fit it all in.  You forget one little thing, such as...say...where to poop...and the whole world falls apart. But, hey, there I was, minding my own business, living with a pile of sibling puppies indoors and the next thing I knew,  I was living here. And Myrtle expected me to start going potty outside having never even seen outside before!

Do you know how terrifying outside can be?  Grass.  Terrifying stuff.  It is hot and cold and wet and dry.  Never the same.  It tickles the pads on my paws, too.  Frankly, I'm not a fan of the stuff.  Myrtle's been a tad bereft over the browning of her grass due to the heat wave and drought, but I haven't minded at all.  Dead grass isn't nearly as disconcerting as the green stuff is.

Outside has the Fearsome Beast, too.  The first time I encountered it, I very wisely high-tailed it back up the steps and made my desire to gain the safety of inside as soon as possible.  But Myrtle rather callously picked me up and deposited me back on the grass.  She doesn't understand or care about the Fearsome Beast.

Just look here.  Wouldn't the sight of this Fearsome Beast in the strange jungle you just started trying to become accustomed to send you running for safety?  Myrtle hasn't taken a photo in a while, but, believe you, me this wild animal has grown four-fold.  No matter that so have I, or somewhere there abouts.  A fellow simply shouldn't have to face the Fearsome Beast when he's supposed to be concentrating on other things!

I suppose the worst part about outside is at the end of the day.  Outside become dark and even more dangerous.  With no lights out back, every step is a step into the unknown...and the likelihood that somewhere near by that Fearsome Beast is lurking nearby.  That's just too much for a little puppy dog such as I.

Inside has its own set of problems.  The list of what I cannot chew is every growing.  Hard to keep that straight in my head.  Then there's where I can play and where I cannot.  I also have to keep track of what I can eat and what I cannot. 

How am I supposed to managed to remember every single new thing in my life perfectly day in and day out.  Something's got to give.  It's not like I plan it this way.  It's not like I purposely have the thing I am to remember that I forget be where I am allowed to poop more often than anything else.  It just appears to be that way.

This is my life with Myrle.  Amos Adams signing off.

It's a rough life, but someone's got to live it...

Six months.

Some people would pin a medal on me just for making it this far.  I don't know about that.  Living with Myrtle is not all bad.  According to Neighbor Girl, she kisses me too much.  I want to tell Neighbor Girl to mind her own business, but thus far I haven't figured out human speech.

I should have started this a long time ago, but perhaps my eighth-month-birthday is as good a time as any.  Actually, there is a raging debate as to whether I was born on the 1st or the 10th.  I suppose Myrtle will settle on a date by the time my first whole year rolls around.  I think if play my cards right, though, I could end up with two birthdays and two celebrations, which would mean two extra-tasty meals and two bones and two new babies!

A dog can't have enough babies.

Yep.  That's right.  I'm Myrtle's dog.  Or she's my doggy mom. I'm not sure what's the best way to look at it.  The jury is out on which one of us does more taking care of the other.  I guess I'll let you decide.

This is me, by the way.  A handsome little devil, don't you think?  This was back before she picked up the scissors, thinking she could do as good a job as a groomer.  The jury's out on that one, too.

What do you need to know about me?  Well, I'm a stand up kind of guy.  I won't leave you in the lurch.  Matter of fact, I won't leave you at all.  If you have a problem with my getting tangled in your feet, take some walking lessons.  I'm just trying to keep you company.

I like soft, plushy babies with squeakers, tennis balls, and baths.  Well, I like the snuggling that takes place after the bath.  For the baths themselves, Myrtle uses this smelly shampoo she just LOVES.  It's lavender scented!  I am a MALE and she has me smelling like flowers all the bloody time!  But, then again, because I do, she buries her face in my hair and gives me kisses all the day long.  A fellow simply can't get enough kisses.  That Neighbor Girl is all wrong.

Myrtle will tell you my one failing is that I have yet to learn to do my major business out of doors.  She overlooks the fact that when a fellow's got to go, he's GOT to go.  Plus, she also has this brown grass growing upstairs, right inside where there is no rain, no scary darkness, no terrifying wet blades of grass, and no Fearsome Beast.  So, I don't know why she objects to me using it.  She makes such a fuss over my going outside that I want to do so again.  But, like I said.  Sometimes, you just got to go.

I met Myrtle on February 14th.  A crazy day for me.  Before I knew it, I was being ripped away from my five siblings and tossed into the back seat of this big metal machine.  I was bounced around something fierce for two hours before I was finally carried up some steps and placed into her arms.

If she had her way, I think Myrtle would never put me down.  I'm that kind of a fellow; girls just want to hang out with me.  But she does manage it.

I thought her a rather strange creature at first sight.  She's strange, I grant you that, but I am not so sure in the way I first thought.  Her hair is impossibly long, which she has taken to wearing in two braids.  I thought she started doing this so I could have extra chew toys, but I was mistaken.  She made that clear.  She is sick a lot, which my other caregivers were not.  I find that strange, especially when she's lying on the floor and no amount of swiping at her cheeks or bouncing up and down on her will wake her up.  She watches movies and reads books and listens to Sugarland.  She's a night owl and a morning bear.  She told me, in no uncertain terms, when we met that her food was off limits.  We both know that's not true, but I try to pretend for her sake.  Sometimes she gets very discouraged about the raising of me.  I don't understand this, but I know it to be true.  She weeps a lot and trembles.  She doesn't walk me as much as I would like.  And she will not share her bacon.

But, one month ago, she saved my life.  That's the bottom line for me.  She put my life ahead of hers.

I'm not talking about being rescued from the pound and that shot of death awaiting unwanted dogs there.  I'm talking about giving every ounce of her strength to hold onto me while a raging maniac of a pit bull tried to kill me or eat me or both...hopefully in that order.  She was bitten and bruised and damaged in more ways than I can understand.  These two men kept urging her to let me go and save herself.  She didn't heed their (probably sage) advice.  Instead, she kept stumbling back to her feet each time the pit bull pulled her to the ground in his attempt to pull me away from her.  With his teeth buried in my body, he really had the upper hand.  But she held on.  She, who drops her brush and has stopped doing the fancy braids because her hands hurt too much, held on for what seemed like five years, though was maybe five minutes total.

Before that day, I would have told you there was no way she could win a battle with a pit bull.  She is tired all the time, falls a lot, and naps at least twice a day.  She drops things, can't lift others, and even struggled to haul me around if I am not draped about her shoulders.  On paper, the pit bull should have won.  But he didn't.

How can I object to having to take care of her when she did that for me?

The dreams that make her wake up screaming have returned.  She is too chicken to take me for a walk.  And she jumps and starts at barking dogs.

Of course, so do I. 

Myrtle refuses to evict the Fearsome Beast that resides in our back yard.  She will wash dishes every day, but won't wash me each time I ask. She doesn't allow me to play by myself, especially upstairs on the brown grass.  And she's a mess.

But, the way I see it, she's my mess.  I'm going to take care of her because she takes care of me.  I was doing that before the pit bull hurt us both.  I played with her and snuggled with her and even learned to fetch the toys she flings across the room or yard for no reason at all.  I was a good mate, I think. 

At least I thought I was.  And then I saw how much she loves me, how beneath all the tears and fears and weakness and illness, there is this lioness ready to defend her cub.  It's a jungle out there, man!  I'm sticking close to Myrtle.  And I'm going to do a much better job of taking care of her.  Sometimes that means waiting on my urgent needs (that might take a while more to fully execute), learning a new word lickety split (I learned down stairs in just one day without begging for a single bone bribe), dragging her out of bed so she'll stop being the hermit she's becoming, or comforting her when she weary and her wounds are weighing her down. Heck, it might just mean taking on Neighbor Girl.  But let's not be rash.  Slow and steady wins the race.

So what if it seems that there is more of my taking care of her than her taking care of me.  Who says a dog's got to live just one way?

This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off.