Let the fur fly - or float!

Our 90-pound Labra-mutt has a jumping-phobia.

"What's the deal," I asked as dozens of other hounds bounded, splashed and doggie-paddled their way past.

It was a pool party for dogs and our big lug had turned into a poolside lump.

Perfectly happy trotting just thigh-high near the baby end of the local swimming hole with the designer dogs, it was the diving Dachshund that sent my male counterpart over the edge.

Grabbing the leash, The Man had decided today was the day he would cure Ace's fear of jumping into the water.

It's not that Ace doesn't like to swim, once he inches his way in step-by-step, he's practically a furry fish. Jumping in and out of the back of a truck for a car ride? Piece of cake. Jumping into a pool or lake? Not so much.

"Come on Ace, it's easy," he said patting the water near the three-foot ledge. "Look that dog did it, so did that one."

While not the most graceful of doggie belly-flops, the other dogs were schooling Ace in pool parties 101.

Holding a treat as far over the water as his arm could reach, The Man pleaded with Ace to jump in.

Still dry, I begged Ace not to make us look like the over-protective parents sending their child to an advanced pool party with arm floaters and an inner tube.

After a few questionable flops for treats he was beginning to show progress.

As a few designer dogs paddled their way past, showing their bravery, it was time to take it up a notch.

I waded in just above the knees, throwing all concern for my work attire aside.

Nose to nose with my stubborn King Ace, we sized each other up.

"OK Ace, let's do this," I said, hands on my hips 'cause I meant it.

Pulling a few treats from my pocket, I slapped my thighs and in my best doggie-mommy voice gave him a, "come here boy. You can do it. Come to Momma."

Whoosh! Kuuuurrr plunk!

Within a split second his nose was pushed firmly on my tush, tail wagging under water.

"He did it!" I shouted, flinging my arms, and water, into the sky.

Ignoring all the new friends he could be making, Ace's entire focus was on my butt.

Jump in, get a treat, climb out. And so it went, until the treats were gone.

Losing interest in my rear end, he hopped out and jogged across dry land to the zero-depth entry side of the pool.

----------------------

"Get it Stella," The Man said pointing to a floating stick.

While the Labra-mutt King Ace explored the shoreline, our Shih-Tzu was taking on water, literally.

After water toys and sticks failed to entice Ace to make the jump into the lake, we turned our focus to stubborn Stella.

Not one to let a good stick get away, she flung her little 9-pound body into the water.

The pony-tail on top of her head the only thing dry, she carried the stick up the rocks and dropped it in front of The Man.

We had found our water dog.

Life is good - Until the dog asks for a beer

Column for 8-3

I'm convinced my dogs think they're human, and according to my male counterpart, "Why shouldn't they?"

"The dog has higher thread count sheets than we do," The Man said, slowly rubbing his cheek along the edge of our spare bed.

Around our house, which is occupied a majority of the time by those of the four-legged variety, there are two things that get replaced more often than in the average American household — you know, the homes with 2.5 kids and an SUV — and that's vaccum cleaners and bedding.

Along a wall in our basement sits a memorial to all the Hoovers, Dirt Devils and Eurekas that bit the dust, or in our case, bit more dog hair than they could chew.

Our spare bedroom closet contains a two-foot-tall stack of bed sheets. Though technically queen-sized, with the help of a nearly 90-pound mutt, they have been wallered on, worn thin, stretched out and so covered in hair that no guest to our home is allowed to see them.

Yes, his royal highness canine, King Ace, is too good — or spoiled — to have a dog bed. He stretches himself out, spread eagle, on our spare bed, where he spends a majority of the day, pillows and all.

It's a rough life.

"Come on Ace," I said patting The Man's empty side of the bed. Morning snuggle fests were our little secret.

That is until our sheets — the high thread-count kind — started showing signs of retirement. Adding them to the pile of "dog blankets," I bought replacements — unfortunately with a lower thread count — and pleaded the fifth when The Man asked.

"Hi Ace," said the bubbly secretary at our local vet.

Not one to be rude, he exchanged greetings as he propped his front legs on the tall counter and stood there — the way local farmers do while conversing about the weather.

Our other dog, the ShihTzu, who I'm also convinced thinks she's human, makes stops at her beautician more often than the average man hits the barber shop.
The two are very polite when it comes to family dinners. Seated alongside the family, they'll often shake your hand and wait until your finished before leaving the room. Aren't they considerate?

Like The Man, they enjoy the chairs in our home most when they are reclined. And their water slightly chilled.

While they remain completely and utterly spoiled rotten and human-like, I won't be concerned as long they don't ask me to change the channel or hand them a beer.

Impatience is my virtue

Daily Forum Column for 7-28

He had to repeat the question, and to make matters worse he added, "No Megan, I'm asking you," prior to the repeat to make sure I was focused. Apparently, I can get off topic and lose attention quite easily.

That day was four years ago, and while four years may not seem like a very long time to spend dedicated to another individual, in the grand scheme of my life, its nearly an eternity.

Our four year anniversary gave me a chance to reflect on life, not to mention it was a great excuse for a lunch date with my male counterpart.

When the lunch date was over and I was back at my desk, I took a second to look back at the crazy, fun ride that is our life.

Reviewing the past four years, I realized the only thing constant — was him.

I've known for a majority of my life now that I'm a pretty impatient person. What woman isn't?

We're talking the kind of impatience that makes me give gifts a day early simply because I can't wait another day. Impatience that helps me swipe my debit card for that pair of shoes, since I don't want to wait for them to go on sale.

I'm even a reporter because I'm impatient. I can't wait for today's news in tomorrow's paper. I need to know now.

Not only am I impatient, I think it's safe to say I'm driven to see what's next. I suppose that has something to do with being impatient.

While some people take more than the allotted four years to complete college, I was impatient. I got out in less than four.

Since I've been old enough to drive, I haven't even managed to keep the same car for four years. In fact, I've had four different cars. In the past four years, I've lived in two different locations and held three different jobs.

When it comes to styles, forget about it. Curly, straight, long, short, blonde and dark, I can't even keep the same hair style for four months, let alone four years.

I'm sure you're beginning to wonder how I've kept the same guy around for four years now, aren't you?

Well, I'm not sure what the answer to that is, but he must be one patient guy to put up with my impatience.

While patience may be his virtue, my impatience has left for some memorable stories in our four-year adventure.

During his two-month internship, thousands of miles away, I got impatient and hopped on a plane.

That dog we talked about owning one day, turned into two furballs consuming the majority of our bed each night.

Those projects around our home have been checked off the list, even if the bathroom got painted yellow when he was hoping for blue.

And while my impatience may not always lead me to the best conclusions, I'm sure glad I found a patient man to keep me around. Not to mention one who is patient while I often publicly humiliate him in this very column each week.

Pin the tail on the donkey

Daily Forum Column for 7-21

It's been years since I've babysat a child, and there's a reason why.

After a few summers of missed naps, temper tantrums and terrible twos I opted for a job flipping burgers and swore off children altogether.

Now, nearly 10 years later, I find myself in a room full of youngsters three nights a week. Insanity lead me to a part-time job as a dance instructor.

I'm not sure if it's that I only see them for an hour at a time or if it's that they can't put their sticky paws all over my stuff but either way, children have made their way back into my life.

"Catch me!" yelled the tiny, blond torpedo whose sites were set on my face.

Trying not to drown either of us or the toddlers in their inner tubes nearby quickly became the goal of the day.

I had been suckered by a four-year-old girl.

The events leading up to our day at the local swimming pool went something like this (keep in mind it was a Tuesday):

Girl: "Miss Megan, when can I come to your house and see your puppies?"

Me: "How about Friday? We could even go to the pool." (This was when I realized I had backed myself into a corner.)

Girl: "When's Friday?"

At this point her mother interjected and in classic motherly fashion reminded her that she had learned her days of the week in

preschool and the two began to perform a crazy song and dance.

Though the girl's calendar didn't follow the typical pattern at first, she eventually got it and realized that Friday was just three days away.

Come Friday morning, I had a text message from the mother saying that one very excited little girl had remembered it was Friday and was already packing her swimsuit.

Not one to disappoint, especially a four-year-old, I dug up my suit and beach towel.

Just a few hours later, there was a car seat in my Jeep, a large duffel bag of children's accessories in my living room and a bubbly blond chasing my terrified dogs through the house.

I was officially babysitting once again.

Once the dogs had been pulled from underneath the couch and were assured that they would be tortured no more, us girls headed to the pool.

For me, the pool going process is simple. Find a spot to perch and bask in the warm sun. When it gets hot, get in the water.

The pool going process with a four-year-old is a bit more complex.

It's a bit like pin the tail on the donkey, with a moving donkey.

She wiggled out of her sundress and sandals and darted toward the kiddie pool before I had even found the sunblock in her bag.

One arm floater attached, the pursuit was on to secure the other floater, both of which were just as quickly removed and tossed aside. Four-year-olds don't want arm floaters, they just complicate the cannon ball process.

The next few hours were spent jumping, swimming, or floundering rather, and terrifying the life out of poor Miss Megan. And she plans to do it again next week.

THE WAY IT IS: When Super Mario meets Aging Mario

THE WAY IT IS: When Super Mario meets Aging Mario

Juggling could be fun

The day started with a BANG.

It was the kind of bang that even made our 90-pound dog, who was more like a sleeping Grizzly Bear at that point, spring into my lap and ask “what the heck was that?”

Our 9-pound pooch quivered with fear safely perched on the face of my male counterpart.

For a brief moment, it was silent while our minds tried to comprehend exactly what had happened.
It was only July 3 and way too early in the morning for fireworks of that nature.

“Holy crap! Lightning,” the man finally muttered. “It was close.”

Close, was an understatement. The way the light filled the room, coupled with the rafter shaking boom, I thought aliens were invading and had chosen to beam up my house.

Once I made sure my shorts were clean it was time to see what was up.

We hadn’t lost electricity, the house wasn’t on fire and the backyard tree was still standing. Phew.
Just when we thought we had escaped with our lives, I grabbed my computer for a quick check of the weather.

Crap. The Internet was down, maybe we hadn’t gotten off so lucky.

The man decided to handle the situation and did what he does best. Stare down the blinking box, scratch his head and unplug it.

Once the box was rebooted, still no Internet.

Panic ensued as we tested all other electronic devices. The kind of panic that makes you question your existence. That, how will I live without Facebook, YouTube and email kind of panic.

No satellite television either, crap.

That’s when the man began to panic. No ESPN, no football re-runs, no watching Bear Gryllis eat maggots to survive in the Amazon, what was he to do?

I grabbed the phone and made the several, annoyingly automated phone calls to our Internet and satellite providers.

Three days. Three days was the soonest their technicians could arrive. Three days we would be without our links to the outside world. It was after all, a holiday weekend.

With nothing to do but have a conversation with me, or sulk, the man chose the latter.

Sitting in the middle of the living room floor, facing the blank screen on his beloved flat screen TV, he hopelessly clicked the remote, jiggled wires and sulked some more.

Our close encounter with the lightning kind, had officially wiped out our Internet modem, satellite receiver and the man’s precious surround sound receiver.

After a game of thumb war for choice of DVD, that I obviously lost, I contemplated learning a new hobby or maybe even freshening up on my housekeeping skills to pass the time.

Less than a split second later, I realized the choices I had so stupidly laid out for myself and settled on juggling. Juggling could be fun.

The Way It Is: Benjamin Franklin, eat your heart out

Daily Forum column for 6-30.

Electricity has its perks.

Without it, I wouldn't have light or blistering hot appliances for which I use to get ready in the mornings. My male counterpart would have to do my laundry by hand. Our pampered pooches wouldn't have the luxury of napping the day away in a climate controlled environment.

So when a tornadic thunderstorm roared through our town, knocking out power, we did the most logical thing possible in such a situation. We freaked out.

Within minutes we were using our flash lights to monitor the battery-operated thermostat as the temperature in our house began to rise.

"It's so hot in here," whined the already sweaty man of the house.

Our Shih Tzu princess Stella, cowering with fear, refused to leave my lap only adding to my heat-related problem.

"The fish tank!"

I reminded Mr. Steamy that his precious, saltwater tank inhabitants could also suffer as a result of the outage.

As Stella and I found our storm watching spot in the middle of the living room floor, armed with a flashlight and an already dying cell phone, we watched as neighborhood tree limbs whizzed by at NASCAR speeds.

Oblivious to what life would be like without electricity and cell phones, we thumb-wrestled for use of the car charger.

Mr. Steamy walked laps performing his manly duties of monitoring the home while assuring his fishy friends that they would "be OK."

Two hours and two phone calls to our electric company later, I began to fear for his sanity.

Not so long ago, when an ice storm knocked out the town's power for almost a week we lost nearly all of our freshwater fish when temperatures in our home took a dip.

Visualizing his most recent collection of not-your-average-goldfish buddies belly up was heartbreaking.

With nothing to do but wait, we retired for what would be a warm and dark night of sleep.
Whoosh!

As my brain slowly began to comprehend exactly what was going on and my eyes adjusted, I realized the electricity had come back on.

Turning to alert Mr. Steamy, I found that he had already sprang from the bed and was nose to the glass.

"Everyone's alive and OK," he assured me.

"It's 3 a.m.," I reminded him.

With his spirits lifted, he coaxed me out of bed to perform a complete home assessment of the storm damage.

Shuffling into the kitchen, I completed my womanly task of resetting the microwave clock and went back to bed.