It’s no coincidence that dog is God spelled backwards.

We don’t deserve dogs. We really don’t. I can only hope that my dogs know how much I love them. Over the top? I don’t care.

I currently have four dogs that, if I’m being polite, I would call them cross breeds. They’re mutts and I write that with genuine affection. Hell, most of us are mutts, really.

I have an almost 12 year old Anatolian Shepherd/Lab mix named Daphne that has honestly saved my life or saved me from prison time depending on how you look at it. More on that another time. I have a 6 year old Jack Russell terrorist/American Staffordshire mix named Raven. While Daph may still be the boss, Raven is my little diva. I fully expect to catch a cat one day donning the Raven suit. Then there is Teddy. He’s two. We were told he is a Border Collie mix. Um… No. I do the DNA testing so I know what I’m working with as far as potential health concerns go. He’s a Husky/Malamute/Samoyed/Great Pyr mix along with 30% of something not even in the database. We tested him twice. Yep. He’s a weirdo. Last but not least is Loki. He just turned 1 in April and he is appropriately named. He is the proverbial bull in a China shop.

These 4 have given me more joy than I can even express. They eat bedding, toilet paper, unattended pizza and burgers and I wouldn’t change a thing. They run the house. All I ask of my dogs is that they be dogs with all of the love that title implies.

As humans, we fail. I do. Everyday I fail to love enough, to forgive quickly, and to enjoy this moment. A dog never fails.

Believe me all dogs go to heaven, and to paraphrase Will Rogers, if they don’t, then when I die, I want to go where they do.

Excuse the pics that are obviously phone wallpapers. And yes, I have pics of my dogs on my phone, not my kids.

F**k the dishes

I make no secret of the fact that I am medicated for several mental disorders. I say disorder in all seriousness because inside my brain I have a squirrel on crack making decisions. OCD, general anxiety disorder, chronic, clinical depression, mild dissociative disorder are all mixed together in a lively circus inside my head leading to raging insomnia. Fun times. Anyhoo… I spent the better part of my 20’s and 30’s making sure my house was picture perfect. Like, eating off the floor clean. (That statement, of course, is to make a point. I do not endorse eating off of the floor.) I wanted my life to look like a painting of a beautiful scene. The problem is that if you get really close to the canvas, you can start to see the cracks in the paint and the faded spots. After my divorce from my first husband, which was truly a gift from God, and getting on the right meds, I realized that if I worry about the dirty dishes, I’ll always have to worry. Housework will never end. I would rather enjoy a cup of coffee or a glass of wine with my BFF, who also happens to be my husband. I’ll get around to the chores in a bit, but for now, f**k the dishes.

The joy of not giving a damn

No matter how much you don’t care what anyone thinks when you’re in your 20’s and into your 30’s, you do, at least a tiny bit, worry about what people think. But there comes that moment, some point after the first half of your 30’s, when you can inhale with the sweet peace of knowing that you give zero f**ks. The tattoo, the crazy hair color, the bright Chucks on your feet, and the feisty, true you are something to celebrate. And celebrate, we shall!