They say that dogs and their humans tend to be alike. In our case, it feels like fate.
Our girl is a rescue. We have no clue how old she is. All we know is that she and her seven siblings were taken from a hoarding situation. They were not fed, had no water, received no medical care, and were eventually seized by police and animal control.
Our girl is purebred and expensive, which somehow makes the fact that she was neglected even stranger.
Since we got her fully matured from a rescue, there wasn’t much information about her. All we knew was that she was good with other dogs and very curious.
Next week is our gotcha day, and I’ve realized just how alike we are.
We both hate crowds. We’re both introverts who would rather enjoy our sofa after a hard day of working—or barking.
We both love to garden. I love to plant, and she loves to dig, so we’re a match made in heaven.
We both like to eat—especially good food and bananas, which we often share. We also both love our vegetables; she gets all my cucumbers.
So here’s to another year of digging, gardening, and stealing each other’s snacks. No matter what comes next, we’ll face it as the best duo we know how to be—just a couple of introverts who love their couch.”
Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson sang a duet in 1984 about all the girls they loved before. In my humble opinion, the lyrics should change to all the dogs I loved before.
This morning, while I was driving the Passenger Prince, we saw a Wheaten Terrier. Our first “together” dog was a Wheaten. By pure coincidence, this week also marks the anniversary of our Wheaten’s passing.
Our Wheaten—the Wonder Dog—was the Prince’s dog, and I was the spare human. The Wonder Dog was wicked smart and an incredible family dog. The Prince still talks about him as if he were an angel. The Wonder Dog had many shenanigans and loved to one-up the Prince all the time. He was great—but the Prince tends to forget that the Wonder Dog once broke a window when his arch nemesis walked by, or how he managed to reach the counter (despite his short stature) and eat all the bread. He was our first counter-surfer, and we learned a lot from his antics. We had to completely dog-proof the house!
Coincidentally, a couple of weeks ago was the “Gotcha Day” for our second dog together. She was amazing—my dog—and he was the spare human that time. She died unexpectedly, but we were fortunate to have her with us for six wonderful years.
We mourned both dogs deeply. I still cry when I think about them. Our third “together” dog is our latest—she’s a heart healer and pure joy. She’s a rescue, and on many days, I think she rescued us from sadness.
Seeing that Wheaten this morning made us both smile. As we drove to work, we felt happy and full of memories. By the time I dropped the Prince off, we had already agreed: our next dog will be a Wheaten.
Afterward, I checked my Spotify playlist and added Julio Iglesias and Willie Nelson’s duet—because, after all, it really is about all the dogs I loved before.
The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite U.S. holidays. For years, I’d buy my kids those iconic Old Navy 4th of July T-shirts, and we all loved the fireworks, parades, and festive fun that came with the day.
But several years ago, my love for fireworks changed.
The last Fourth of July I could still hear was during the height of the COVID pandemic. That year, it felt like everyone in the neighborhood had their own personal fireworks stash. The noise was relentless, and the dogs were not happy.
And “not happy” is an understatement—they were terrified. The fireworks didn’t stop for days. Our Airedale, Sage, went from a dog who loved long walks to one who would only go outside for the bare minimum, then rush back inside immediately.
This pattern continued for several years. As the holiday approached, so did Sage’s anxiety. What was once a cheerful, barky dog became increasingly withdrawn. Last year, just a day before the Fourth, she passed away from a heart attack. We believe the ongoing stress from the fireworks played a role.
Sage wasn’t alone—our other dogs hated them too. Every year, we’d shut all the windows, crank up the TVs and radios, turn on white noise machines—anything to help calm the pack. We even timed walks carefully to avoid dusk or random fireworks going off early.
For the past five years, someone in the family always stayed home with the dogs on the night of the Fourth. This year, that person was me. My husband and adult son were biking through Europe, and the other kids had plans. I was happy to stay home and keep the dogs company.
I did manage to attend the neighborhood parade, which was a joy. Seeing kids with their decorated bikes, full of excitement and laughter, brought back good memories.
But then night came—and it was miserable.
The fireworks didn’t stop until 1 a.m. Even without my hearing aids, I could hear them. The poor schnauzer was inconsolable, hiding in the shower or buried in the closet under my clothes. Shuki, our Airedale, wasn’t doing much better. None of us slept until silence finally arrived around 2 a.m.
As I tried to comfort the dogs, I couldn’t stop thinking about veterans and others with PTSD. How do they cope with this night? Fireworks are beautiful, yes—but they’re also loud, jarring, and triggering for many.
So I find myself wondering: should cities still sponsor fireworks displays? Is there a better way? Could we move fireworks to more remote, open areas? Or use drones and silent light shows in more densely populated neighborhoods?
I’m pondering all of this today, sleep-deprived, with two dogs still glued to my side.#FourthOfJuly, #PetSafety, #FireworksDebate, #PTSDawareness, #DogLovers.
My previous dog passed away last year. She had a bitter rivalry with a small but feisty corgi down the street. There was never any actual interaction between them — not even a sniff — but that didn’t stop the drama. The feud began when the corgi, who sleeps by a front window, barked at her one day as we walked past. And just like that, the war began. The now-legendary Seven-Year Airedale vs. Corgi War.
Whenever we passed by the corgi’s house, he’d go wild. When the corgi passed by our house, our Airedale would lose her mind. And so it continued, a battle of barks and glares, until the day our girl passed away.
This year, we adopted a rescue — a gentle giant with a heart full of love and a history of abuse. She’s anxious, scared of her own shadow, and doesn’t bark or jump at windows. That is… until she met the corgi.
One day, we walked past the corgi’s house. He barked at us like always — and something changed. Our sweet, timid rescue perked up. The ancient war reawakened. Somehow, some way, the vendetta had passed on. Now, every time we even approach the corgi’s house, she’s alert and ready. She’s never barked, but you can feel the energy shift. I swear I hear “Let’s get ready to rumble” in my head every time we round the corner.
We don’t encourage the feud. We cross the street to avoid it. But our girl is always ready, as if she’s been briefed on this rivalry since day one.
I actually talked to the corgi’s owner last week and we laughed about it. He admitted it’s probably his dog’s fault — apparently, the little guy is a menace to all dogs who dare walk past his window. Maybe our new girl picked up on our energy. Maybe she inherited the rivalry. Who knows? It’s probably a bit of both.
For now, the Seven—now Eight—Year War between the Airedale and the Corgi continues. Maybe one day, someone will write a history book about it, and their legacy will live on.
We fostered a rescue dog several months ago with the intent to “foster fail” and adopt her. Happily, we did fail at fostering, and now she shares our last name.
Our Shuki girl was rescued from a house that did not feed or give water to her and her siblings. She was extremely malnourished and very suspicious when we got her. Feeding time was like a piranha frenzy in the Amazon. She ate her food so quickly, you could barely count the seconds, out of fear that it would be taken from her. She gulped water the same way, creating big, messy puddles all around her.
She’s been with us for almost three months now, and we love her dearly. In that time, we’ve seen her grow from a fearful, malnourished pup into a sweet, cuddly companion. She is a big cuddler, unlike our previous dog, and seeks pets and attention quite a lot. She’s also scared of many things, especially big white cars. We suspect her abuser had a car like this.
Shuki knows many commands at this point and understands them in two languages. She is a very smart girl.
This week, however, we had a scary incident. Some kids came fast behind her on a walk with motorized scooters, and it freaked her out. She was so scared that she broke the leash and ran away. We panicked. Since she’d only been with us for three months, we weren’t sure where she would run to and were afraid she’d get hit by a car—or worse.
An emergency family phone call ensued, and we all went looking for her, worried sick. We found her about 10 minutes later—or better yet, she found us. She ran home, and luckily my husband was close by. He saw her and opened the door for her to enter the house. On the Ring camera, you can see her calmly walking into the house, while we were all in a panic.
Shuki girl ran home. She ran back to a place where she felt safe, secure, and loved.
There’s a common “Three, Three, Three” rule for rescue dogs. It means: three days to decompress, three weeks to learn the house routines, and three months to feel fully at home. We are very happy that she found her way home and that she considers our home her safe place. She’s a gentle giant, and we’re hopeful that she’ll be with us for many more years to come. But we could certainly do with fewer scary moments like that one!
Patience is not a strong virtue of mine. In fact, I’m pretty sure I don’t possess such a trait. I’m one of those people who need things done yesterday, even if the idea just crossed my mind three seconds ago.
We adopted a rescue dog several weeks ago, and we have no knowledge of her age or past, other than the fact that she was malnourished, neglected, and abused. With rescue dogs, there’s the 3-3-3 rule: you need a lot of patience. The first three days, the dog decompresses from the transition. The next three weeks, the dog settles into its new routine. And around three months, the adopted dog truly settles in and understands they are safe. Of course, every dog takes their own time and behaves a little differently. But the key to a successful adoption is providing a safe environment, training, and—most importantly—patience.
Patience. Again, not one of my strong suits, but in this case, a necessity. Shuki, the Airedale, has been with us for almost six weeks now. It took time for her to realize that I am safe and won’t harm her. In the beginning, she was afraid of even my smallest movements. She ate her food like a vacuum at light speed. She learned her name, responds to it, and is getting better and stronger every day.
Some days feel like the movie 50 First Dates—every morning, it’s like we’re starting the bonding process from scratch, even though she’s been with us for weeks. Unfortunately, like the movie, I can’t ask her to relive the past through a highlight reel of her last six weeks.
And once again, patience is needed. You often see bumper stickers with the saying “Who saved who?” I’m learning that this is true. Shuki is learning to trust, and in return, she’s teaching me the invaluable lesson of patience—something I never thought I’d master at my age. For that, I am grateful.
Our house has been very quiet the last 6 months since we lost our previous dog. The house was quiet, no dog toys everywhere, and my daily step count plunged. We were on a walk last week, talking about the possibility of getting a new dog. Little did we know, fate would intervene quickly—the very next morning, we found a dog looking for a home, and after applying, we welcomed our new girl.
Our new girl came from a rescue, and no one knows how old she is. All we know is that she was neglected and was looking for a loving forever home. Our previous dogs were puppies when we got them, so adopting a rescue is a new experience for us.
There is a 3-3-3 rule when you adopt a dog: it takes 3 days for the dog to decompress, 3 weeks to learn the household routine, and 3 months to fully settle in. We are on day 6, and she is starting to settle in—getting used to our routine, to us, to the neighborhood, learning some basic commands, and even starting to respond to her name (which she never had before).
As she is getting acclimated to our house and to us, we are also learning about her. This takes patience. Patience to follow her lead as she gets more comfortable around us, and patience for us in training her. Patience isn’t just necessary—it’s great. But not everyone is naturally patient. I’ll admit, I’m the type who wants things done yesterday. In a world where we get instant gratification from likes on social media and next-day Amazon deliveries, waiting for certain things can feel unnatural. But she is teaching me to stop focusing on her behavior, to follow her lead, and to be patient as she gets used to us.
She is also teaching me to manage my expectations. With puppies, you grow and train together. But with a rescue, the dog comes with its own set of experiences—good or bad training, and perhaps habits that need to be unlearned or reinforced. It’s not about lowering my expectations, but rather adjusting them to what’s realistic for the dog we’re adopting.
Our girl got a new lease on life and is getting a brand new beginning, and just like her, we can also start a new path and reinvent ourselves.
They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I challenge that saying. Our dogs were always allowed on the couches—until this past week. After 23 years, we finally bought a new one. We sure needed it. The old one was ratty, my Sagey girl had dug holes in it, and my other half used duct tape to try and fix those holes.
For the past couple of years, my better half kept saying, “Once the dog dies, we’ll get a new sofa.” Well, sadly, my Sagey girl passed away very unexpectedly, and yes, I’m still crying. Yes, she was just a dog, but my heart is still filled with grief daily.
With Sage gone and the sofa looking worse for wear, it was truly time to get a new one. My very choosy partner went to his favorite store’s website and found a sofa he liked—an L-shaped, leather, greenish-blue one.
Sage is gone, but my two grand-dogs are very much alive, very lively, and they love to jump on sofas. So the question became: How do we make sure they don’t climb on the new one? Apparently, you can teach an old dog new tricks, because after a few days, Benjito the schnauzer and Cedar the Australian Shepherd got the message (mostly).
I’m not a huge fan of social media. Sure, I can spend time scrolling through reels and other people’s posts, but I’ve never been particularly invested in it. That is, until my kids challenged me to try it. I opened a TikTok account for Sagey, and to my surprise, it took off—well, not wildly, but good for a mid-century modern-aged woman.
The past year has been a bit difficult. My country is at war, my husband was laid off, and my dog died. It really sounds like a country song, doesn’t it? My brain pretty much shut down. But over the last couple of months, my mind has started to function again. Creativity is flowing, and I decided to dive into learning about social media. I’m learning a lot—watching tutorials, signing up for every class I can find on the subject, and, of course, posting. Not everything I post is great, but I’m learning and improving with every post.
Will I quit my full-time job? No. Am I making money from anything I post? Not yet, but maybe one day. Is it nice to see the “insights” area under my posts say “earned,” even if the number is zero? Absolutely. So, this old dog is learning new tricks, too.
I love to grow plants, plants do not always love me growing them. In my youth I was very good at growing succulents, primarily because it was hard to kill them. Some of them are miraculously still alive 30 years later but that could be attributed to the fact that when I left my home country my mom took custody of my plants. I was always envious of those who had plants that lasted and decided that at some point in my life I will make it. So I started growing hardy, hard to kill plants with some limited success.
As my motto is to never give up, last year I bought 2 raised beds from Costco. I started with seeds and that had very limited success. I didn’t manage to grow anything beyond a beginner plant. It was nice to see something sprout but it was very disappointing. So I switched strategy and moved to buying starter plants. My focus was on tomatoes, peppers and basic herbs.
The tomatoes grew and so did the peppers, and even more the interest of my neighborly racoon. I managed to eat a couple of tomatoes and maybe a pepper or two before my raccoon co partner took a bite and we were all happy.
This year, I added eggplant with success, parsley, basil and some jalapenos. And I enjoy going out to my patio and using my homegrown herbs and veggies. My Airdale loves my new hobby as well. On Fridays she gets to join me in the car and at the Lowe’s garden center as we look for interesting plants to add to my planters.
Some of us were not born with a green thumb, I am one of these people and every day when I go outside to my patio to survey my plants I am astonished and amazed that they are still alive. My persistence is apparently bigger than my not so green thumb and that makes my happy, so the lesson is not to give up even on the little things.
I love eating and I love eating crap! The problem is my body, with complete agreement from my doctors, all disagree with my love of crap. This sucks big time! So for the last 2 weeks I have been eating relatively healthy, not that I don’t like healthy foods, fruit and vegetables, I actually do like them and some I even love. What I don’t love is not having the freedom to eat what I feel like. As a celiac, I should be used to this feeling. But adding more restrictions to my already restricted diet is not fun. Goodbye french fries and potato chips hello cottage cheese and tomatoes. Someone should write a country song about this, really. I can even hear the song in my brain and it’s a very sad breakup song. But truthfully. While I will be limiting some of my favorite fried food groups,I will not be giving them up completely, I will just be more conscious of what I am eating and some foods will be modified. Fries are really too good to give up completely.
Unfortunately for my walking partner, the vet told Sagey girl that she is a little chonky as well and needs to lose a few. So both of us will be adding more veggies to our diets and walking a couple more steps. Thankfully the weather where we live is good almost year round so someone is happy about the extra steps.I already exercise and walk 10000 steps a day thanks to my 70lb dog, who makes sure to provide me with my resistance training as well.
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