Ever meet a cat that was not deliberate? I respect the chic creatures, even with the mischief they create, because felines pre-meditate. I've existed with one cat or another since I was five years ago and they still teach me new calculations.

A dog is likeable, if not deliberate. I've had a few moments trying to think like one.

We brought home a Golden Retriever named Sadie when the first batch of kids was 4 and 2. Seems her owner left her with a neighbor and then moved away. We liked how mellow she was. I learned a lot from that laid-back canine.
Like how she could sail over the new fence when it suited her, how destructive she could be if we left her alone in the house, how protective she was of our kids, even brave enough to growl at their mother, me.

The summer I was third time with child, I observed how hairy a floor could grow under a Golden. I delivered Sadie to the Pet Shak and ordered her shaved. The groomer was horrified, but didn't dare cross an exhausted exasperated pregnant lady with dog hair stuck to her sweaty lips. Sadie slunk home with a crewcut, but her plume of a tail had been spared, so her self esteem soon soared back.

One of the hardest things I've had to admit was that I could not juggle three kids, a dog, and a move within two weeks of childbirth. When our house sold within days after the infant arrived and we relocated to a fenceless property cross-state a week later, Sadie did not go with us. I found lovely people in Columbus, Ohio, with a lovely little girl named Jessica, who wanted a buddy for their lovely dog. They promised to take Sadie swimming and let her cuddle on the couch. I handed the lovelies her leash, and thus, added my name to the annals of despicable progenitors.

Not having been enlightened to the definition of Insanity, and feeling cocky with a fourth child and another move (Ithaca, NY), under my black belt of experience, I agreed to adopt a pup from my brother, living in Sarguemines, France. Said pup was jetted over the ocean within the confines of my sister-in-law's handbag and then spent a few weeks charming my parents in Indiana. Visiting grandson carried her with him on the plane to NY, and we toted her around Niagara Falls to the oo-la-la's of tourists before taking her home.

In the years we lived with the international rat terrier, she kept us chasing the fluffy French tip of her curly German Spitz tail from border to border of the neighboring golf course and nearby orchard. Better than therapy and a gym, not to mention the foreign language I practiced. The latest move to Atlanta, however, was my waterloo. Francee could shoot out of the door and make it to Alabama in minutes. An afternoon spent on the top of Monteagle, TN, waiting for a tow truck, within sight of the interstate exit we had just passed, clutching Francee's collar and constantly counting the heads of my four children while traffic barrelled by was the peak of adventure I could barely survive.

For her safely and my sanity, Francee rode home with Aunt Mary to live out the remaining decade of her wanderlust life on Maple Lane farm near Cadiz, Indiana. She zipped along the fencerows from sun up to dusk, sometimes cornering a glow-eyed critter in a tree til the moon gave up. And after fourteen years on the run, Francee finally did too.