And I do. A year ago I was frantically preparing to bring Ivy home, reading dog books like mad, buying crates and leashes and collars and searching for a vet who wasn't a shot salesman disguised as a vet. Long road, that one. I turned forty-three, flew from Austin to Albuquerque to pick up my sweet girl, suffered the nightmare flight home and embarked on the life I'm in now, the best life I have ever lived. I'm glad I never had a dog before Ivy, but that's a story for another day.
I didn't know that a sweet funny dear boy Aussie would join us six months later, but what do I know? My dogs don't need words. They need clear body language, a happy spirit flowing out of me, a warning look now and then, and an expression on my face that is the equivalent of an embrace. In honor of them, I'll stop now.