They are so cute, so loving, so much a part of our home. Our dogs, Chandler and Bette. We let them live in our house, sleep in our bed, recline on our sofa like Cleopatra on the barge. They live a life of ease far removed from their distant ancestors the wolves who must hunt for food, live out in the elements, and constantly look over their shoulder for enemies. My dog's enemies are toys that have a squeaker they might choke on, or a drunken owner who just might go to bed without giving them a cookie. Yes, our dogs have it good, and in return they give me unwavering love, a.k.a. dedication to the man who feeds them. They guard the house from danger, from those who might want to do us harm, and from the odd squirrel, possum, or raccoon. They also fart. Horribly smelly farts that waft through the house while they lay motionless on the floor as if maybe the cat did it. They puke, they pee in the house (Bette only), they shred important papers (Again, Bette only), and they carry an occasional tick into the house where it immediately jumps off looking for sweeter meat. But most of all they bring us gifts. Just last night Chandler spent but two minutes out in the dog run and came back in the house with an offering. Mark didn't appreciate it as much as the dogs did, and he let them know it by cringing on the sofa with his legs pulled up off the floor. I of course, simply grabbed some toilet paper while thinking, this is a good source of blog material.