No Less than the Trees and Stars

I've had this copy of the Desiderata for about thirty years. That's my best guess. I think I got it in high school, or early on in my college career at Ohio University. It's just a photocopy, and it's littered with thumbtack holes and coffee stains; recently I put it in a frame to keep it protected.

The word "Desiderata" is the plural of the Latin word "desideratum", which means "desired thing". It's a common myth that it was written in the 1600s. I believed that for years. After all, my copy says "Old Saint Paul's Church, Baltimore A.D. 1692". In truth, the poem was written in the 1920s by an American poet named Max Ehrmann (who, like many of my favorite people, was from Indiana). Here's a summary of its confusing history (courtesy of fleurdelis.com):

Around 1959, the Rev. Frederick Kates, the rector of St. Paul's Church in Baltimore, Maryland, used the poem in a collection of devotional materials he compiled for his congregation. At the top of the handout was the notation, "Old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore A.C. 1692." The church was founded in 1692. 


As the material was handed from one friend to another, the authorship became clouded. Copies with the "Old St. Paul's Church" notation were printed and distributed liberally in the years that followed. It is perhaps understandable that a later publisher would interpret this notation as meaning that the poem itself was found in Old St. Paul's Church, dated 1692. This notation no doubt added to the charm and historic appeal of the poem, despite the fact that the actual language in the poem suggests a more modern origin.


When Adlai Stevenson died in 1965, a guest in his home found a copy of Desiderata near his bedside and discovered that Stevenson had planned to use it in his Christmas cards. The publicity that followed gave widespread fame to the poem as well as the mistaken relationship to St. Paul's Church. 

The flower children in San Francisco revived it as part of the peace and love movement. Those of my generation may remember the spoken word recording by Les Crane, which reached #8 on the Billboard charts in 1971.

For me, the sentiment behind the poem articulates the way I wish to live my life. It features concepts that align with all major religious doctrines. So I felt like sharing with you, dear readers. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comment section... which lines resonate with you?

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,

and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender

be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly;

and listen to others,

even the dull and the ignorant;

they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,

they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,

you may become vain or bitter;

for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;

it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs;

for the world is full of trickery.

But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;

many persons strive for high ideals;

and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.

Especially, do not feign affection.

Neither be cynical about love;

for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment

it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,

gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.

But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.

Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,

be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,

no less than the trees and the stars;

you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,

whatever you conceive Him to be,

and whatever your labors and aspirations,

in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,

it is still a beautiful world.

Be careful.

Strive to be happy.

Cheryl's Cake

(or, The Further Misadventures of a Martha Stewart Wannabe)


My friend Cheryl, from my writing group, asked me to make her a cake for her birthday. Baking is a sort of zen practice for me, and Cheryl, who is a super-zen qigong kinda gal, appreciates this fact. So I started looking up some recipes and found a German Chocolate cake that used white chocolate. Hmm, Cheryl likes coconut, let’s do that one. I decided to make the frosting from scratch as well, I like a challenge. I shopped Friday morning and planned to bake the next day.

So at 4:30 on Saturday I’ve got the kitchen cleaned up and ready to go. The kids are occupied, Dan’s in the bedroom reading, and I start taking out my ingredients. Toast the pecans. Separate the yolks from the whites. Vanilla, sugar, baking powder.

Baking powder. Where is the baking powder?

Come on, everybody has baking powder, it’s a pantry staple. I just had baking powder, I just saw it. I take everything out of the cupboards, I tear apart the spice cabinet. No baking powder. Oh, and now that I’m looking: no coconut, either. Didn’t I have all that coconut left over from Christmas? Can’t really make German Chocolate cake without coconut! Grumbling, I grab my purse and head to Von’s. Extra butter and eggs, just in case, too. Oh and while you’re out, honey, why don’t you pick up some salad stuff and some chicken, I’ll grill us some dinner, says Dan. Fine.

So now it’s 5:15 and Dan is going to want the kitchen at 6. No problem, I say. I’ll have it in the oven by then. But I’m a little agitated so I think, okay, this is for zen Cheryl, what would she do? Light some candles, take some cleansing breaths. So I light a few tealights and invite in the good cooking energy. Maybe a little glass of wine. Ahh, that’s better.

Everything’s measured out and ready to go. Time to get the pans ready. I bought two new 9-inch cake pans especially for this cake, because it’s supposed to be a triple-layer, and I just have the one Wilton cake pan. Okay, here are the new ones. Here’s the Wilton pan… oh shit. No way. The Wilton pan is… 8 inches.

I can’t have two 9-inch layers and one that’s 8! Crap. Another trip to Von’s, where I got the other two. I can’t stand it.

“Dan? Honey?”

I can’t believe he says he’ll go. He’s not real excited about it, but I think he can tell I’m frazzled, so I give him the cardboard insert from the one of the new pans and say, just get me one of these. They’re next to the syrup.

I start the batter while he’s out. My trusty KitchenAid mixer (“Emeril green”) takes care of whipping the butter and sugar and I glance over at my candles. The tealights on the windowsill are a little close to the fringed red plaid curtain, so I pick them up to move them to the other side of the sill, pushing the curtain away, and by the time I have set the tealights back down a huge flame is shooting up from the red plaid fringe and halfway up the (apparently highly flammable) curtain. It was that fast. Holy shit! I rip the curtain down and throw it in the sink, dousing it with the sprayer. Smoke has already started to rise up to the ceiling, so I grab a cookie sheet to fan it away from the smoke detector. Luckily, I had never replaced the battery since the last time when I set a potholder on fire.

Jesus, I need more wine.

Okay, okay, back to the batter. Oh, here’s Dan. He doesn’t smell any smoke or notice that the curtain is gone. Good. Grease and flour the pans. Crisco. Of course I don’t have fucking Crisco, are you kidding me? Margarine. Margarine and flour the cake pans. Dear God please let that work.

Did you know that if you try to melt white chocolate chips on 100% power they don’t melt, they cook into a hard crusty glob? I didn’t. Let’s try that again on 50% power, like it says on the instructions. Dummy.

Somehow I get the batter done, folding in four-egg-whites-beaten-until-stiff-peaks-form, and divide it among my three perfectly matched 9-inch pans: into the oven they go. Dan the grill master gets everyone fed, and I do not check my cakes until the timer goes off. Immediately I can see that they were in 5 minutes too long: the edges are too dark. The margarine probably didn’t help there, either. All that work and I overcook them. Oh well, nothing I can do now (deep cleansing breaths); let’s get to work on that icing.

I haven’t made a stovetop caramel-type frosting for years. As I get my ingredients (which, mercifully, I do have) ready, I think to myself don’t fuck this up, you’ve only got one can of evaporated milk and I think another trip to Von’s would push me right over the edge into Joan Crawford territory. No more burnt frosting! Ever!

At 8:45, I start stirring the evaporated milk, brown sugar, egg yolks, butter and vanilla over low heat, constantly like it says on the recipe. Mmm, smells yummy. At 9:00 I am still stirring and looking at this lovely caramelly liquid and wondering if it’s ever going to get thick. The recipe says stir constantly until thick. What’s thick mean, anyway? Like pudding? I mean, thick, come on, that’s pretty vague. I know from experience that too long on the heat will mean a burnt flavor, and not enough will mean a runny congealed mess. After 20 minutes of stirring I think it’s thick and add the pecans. Almost immediately I know I got it right and confidently add the coconut. Whew.

The next morning, day of the writing group, I tenderly spatula the perfect frosting onto the slightly overdone layers while Dan and I have an argument about some stupid thing, dishes in the sink or potholders too close to the flame on the gas burner, whatever. Ugh, now my cake has that bad energy in it, too, as if Von’s frequent flier miles, burnt edges and an incinerated window curtain weren’t enough. I wish I had made a double batch of the frosting to sweeten up the karma. Also because I know it’s pretty good and I have no idea what the cake itself will taste like. I pack up my creation and head to Cheryl’s, 40 minutes away on the west side.

I know you’re probably expecting me to tell you there was a car crash and my cake went splat against the windshield, or I dropped it in the driveway, or there was a sudden downpour and it was melting in the dark, all the sweet coconut icing flowing down; I don’t think that I can take it, ‘cause it took so long to bake it... no, I made it inside and at lunch I poked it with fluorescent candles (yay! I remembered the candles!) and we sang happy birthday to Cheryl. And it was pretty good. A teeny bit dry, if you ask me, and not nearly enough caramel deliciousness on top. But everyone seemed to like it just fine.

So it seems Martha’s place at the top is in no way threatened by my latest foray into baking, and I think I may take up qigong as my zen practice for a little while. On the bright side, now I get to go shopping for a new curtain. Flame resistant of course.

Yummm. Breakfast.

R.E.M. (Reality in Every Mirror)

Sometimes these things just pop into my head and I've gotta get 'em out right away. I don't think it requires a whole lot of explanation. p.s. Hope you like the new blog layout for the new year!

 (Sung to the tune of "Losing My Religion")

Oh, life is shorter

it's shorter than I

would like to think of

the lengths that I will go to

the wrinkles 'round my eyes

oh no, I've frowned too much

I need botox

That's me in the mirror

that's me looking so tired

losing all my eyebrows

trying to pencil them in

and I don't know why they all fell out

oh no they won't grow back

I look like hell

I think it's because of thyroid

I think it's pre-menopause

I think I thought I'd never age

Every wrinkle

every crease on my face I'm

slathering with lotions

trying to keep them from view

like those airbrushed and perfect girls

in all those Olay ads

I bought it up

Consider this... consider this:

approaching half-century

Consider this pic:

I look just like my mother, frail

how could my neck look like that

crepe all around

and now I look like hell

I thought that I'd never grow old

I thought that I'd beat the odds

I'd look like twenty-six for life

But that was just a dream

that was just a dream

just a dream...

Oh well... at least I've still got my hair.

Dog Show, Part 2: Not What I Expected

This is the back end of an English Sheepdog on the way to the ring.

        Being at a dog show is not all that different from watching one on TV or watching “Best of Show”. Except that it’s real. Seriously: there are the giant puffy English Sheepdogs parading to the show ring. There are the severe women in suits and flats holding dog treats in their mouths. There are Border Collies running agility right in front of you. I don’t know, maybe I didn’t really believe dogs could do all that weaving and jumping, like it was CGI or something. In person it’s unbelievable, but you know it’s not a digital effect.

        There were vendor booths set up around the perimeter of the place, hawking goods that only crazy dog people would buy. When I saw an exercise ball for dogs I knew I was in another world. “It can be used by our four-legged friends for core strengthening, increased range of motion and flexibility, neuromuscular facilitation, sensory and perceptual stimulation, joint alignment, and balance control.” I shit you not.

        Doggy treadmills, for those days you just can’t drag yourself outside. Handcrafted sterling silver jewelry: what self-respecting breeder could resist a giant brooch showing two Great Danes in profile?

        “We’ve been specializing in Danes for over forty years,” the jewelry guy told me. Awesome.

        Huge tapestries of YOUR BREED HERE only 250 dollars. Or maybe a purse with YOUR BREED on it. Grooming tools: coat rakes, clippers, $200 shears.  Sanitary pads for your “bitch in heat”: look it up, it’s a serious term. Dog people throw the word “bitch” around no problem, like nobody uses the word to describe anything other than a female dog ready for breeding.

        Dan and I said goodbye to our Cardigan breeder friend and wandered over to the booth for the Cardigan Welsh Corgis. Every breed had a booth, and on Sunday morning there were dogs at every one. The Best in Group judging was taking place a little later and the crowds were thickening.

        At the Cardi booth, the three ladies volunteering there had four beautiful dogs (okay, maybe some were bitches, but I wasn’t going there) and lots of admirers. Cardis are the kind of dogs that make people go “Awwwww, look how cute!”  So I was busy being one of those people while Dan started chatting with one of the ladies. He told her about Nathan, and me, and how much I love the breed.

        “Here’s my Nathan,” I said, pulling some photos out of my bag.

        She clucked over him (“such a beautiful brindle boy!”) and said she was sorry, they are never with us long enough.

        “I’m Sherilyn,” she said. “I’m the head of the Cardigan Rescue here in California. You know, we have a beautiful 2-year-old boy who needs a home…”

        She pointed to a photo of a tri-colored dog with a wistful face and great big ears. The caption underneath said “Bowie 2 years Good w/other dogs”.

        Dan heard the word “rescue” and his face lit up. Sherilyn had her prey in her sights. The fish was on the hook. Time to reel him in.

        “We found him up in Atascadero, running around with an old black lab. No tags, no microchip. And he’s still got his dewclaws. Most breeders remove those early on, so we didn’t think he was from anybody we know. Nobody claimed him.”

        Dan nodded excitedly and I scowled at him. Too late. Hook in mouth.

        “He’s a wonderful dog,” she continued. “So sweet. He’s with a foster family up in Lompoc now.”

        By now Dan was holding the picture. “Is he good with kids?”

        I started to hiss at him under my breath. “Don’t do this. Don’t.”

        “Oh, he loves kids. And he’s great with other dogs. He really needs to be with a family with kids.”

        “We’ve got three! And a little dog who’s been very lonely since Nathan died.”

        Sherilyn reached for a clipboard with a xeroxed form on it. It was the application to adopt. She handed it to Dan.

        “Hold on there, cowboy.” I placed myself between the two of them. (“Excuse me just a moment, will you please?” I murmured politely over my shoulder to Sherilyn.)

        “What?” Mr. Wide-Eyed-Innocent-It’s Just-A-Piece-Of-Paper asked.

        “IT”S TOO SOON!” I said. “It’s only been a month. It’s too soon.” And besides, I have my heart set on a puppy, I didn’t say. Puppy puppy puppy.

        Sherilyn piped up behind me, driving the sale home. “I’m telling you, Bowie is a special boy. Probably the sweetest dog I’ve ever rescued. A real lover.”

        I squinched my face at Dan and whispered, “Don’t do this. Do not. I hate you for doing this.”

        But I was outnumbered.

        He’s already housebroken, they said.

        He’s neutered, chipped and has all his shots.

        He’s socialized to kids and other dogs.

        Yes, he’s a beauty.

        Yes, he’s definitely a purebred Cardigan.

        Yes, he’s a fantastic dog, but Melissa (the foster mom) already has three Corgis and a female she wants to breed.

        Also, the adoption fee is about one-third the cost of a new puppy.

        No training. No pee and poop in the house. No frayed nerves over hyper Claire being too crazy with a little pup. No AKC fees.

        Plus – and this is big –

        He’s a rescue.

        Dan is all about rescue dogs, and I’m all about Cardigans.

        We both get what we want.

        The next weekend we brought him home. He was perfect, even his name. We’d been talking about a rock star name for the next dog: Joe Strummer, maybe, or Chrissie Hynde if it was a girl. Charlie lit up when we told him it was Bowie. He loves Ziggy Stardust.

        In about 15 minutes he owned the place and won Clementine over. The kids didn’t faze him at all. He has a look in his eyes that’s part wisdom and part mischief, and when they got to be too much he just walked away. Smart. Except when it came to using the dog door; that mystified him. How does that other dog walk through that wall? I don’t get it.

        That night, I put his bed on the floor next to ours. “Here ya go, Bo,” I said, patting the cushy part.

        He looked at me, tilted his head, and then somehow with his stubby Corgi legs he leapt up onto our bed and curled up next to Dan.

        “No, no,” I said. A dog in the bed? Never. No way. That’s why we had a tall bed anyway. Plus Dan hated it when the cat (rest her soul) had slept up there. (“There’s cat hair on my pillow!”) I picked Bowie up and set him on the floor.

        Pulling a sleeping bag over to the side of the bed, I said, “Here you go. I’ll sleep with you down here tonight.” I patted the pillows. "Come on, Bo!"

        He looked at me, tilted his head, and then used my reclining body as a step to jump back up on the bed. This time, he turned around and peered at me down on the floor, his tongue hanging out, smiling.

        And now we need a bigger bed.

Bowie cuddles with the Dogwalker-In-Chief.

"Merry Christmas, Lady! Where's my cookie?"

Dog Show!

Yep, I love dogs.

I love dogs.

 

Like a lot of dog lovin’ people, I knew that I was gonna need another second dog after Nathan died. Little dog Clementine became even more neurotic in the days after his (as she undoubtedly saw it) disappearance. She started out at our house with both a cat and a dog for companionship. The cat died in August ’08, and now her dog buddy was gone. So she’s been shaking a lot more, and unfortunately her nervous peeing has increased. She needs a friend.

I especially love Cardigan Welsh Corgis.

Nathan was a purebred. Clem is a rescue mutt; Dan has a thing about rescue dogs. I’m all for it too, but I’m sorry, I’m going to need a Cardi in my life forever. Which is okay. Because I don’t ever want to have fewer than two dogs. Three would be great but we’ll need a bigger house. Oh yeah and I want a couple of cats, too.

But I digress.

I started looking for Cardi breeders out here in Southern California. Going through the CWCCA (figure it out), I found a few. Most of them did not have websites, so I clicked on the two that did. One of them had a pretty nice site, including a page for an upcoming litter. There I saw that she had posted the pedigree (the record of the dog’s bloodline) of the parents (the technical terms being “sire” and “dam”).

I couldn’t believe what I saw. The sire’s pedigree went back to Nathan’s bloodline. In fact, one of Nathan’s littermates was in there if you went back far enough.

Now what are the odds of that? Really?

I contacted the breeder and told her the whole story. We went back and forth a bit, trying to set up a visit. She lives in Ventura, not too far away. But we couldn’t get our dates right. We wanted to come up on Sunday, December 5^th, because it was a day the kids were with their dad, and I didn’t have my writing group, so Dan and I had the whole day to ourselves. (It happens occasionally.) But the breeder told me that she was showing a friend’s Cardi in the Eukanuba Dog Show in Long Beach that day.

For those of you unfamiliar with the wacky world of dog shows, the Eukanuba is pretty much the second biggest show in the U.S. after Westminster. Unlike Westminster, which is always at Madison Square Garden, its location changes each year. (Next year it’s in Orlando.)

So this huge dog show just happens to be in Southern California on the one day we have free, when we’re looking for a breeder, and it’s the day the Cardigans are being judged. Again, what are the odds?

I would like to attribute all this to an angel doggy in heaven who’s helping me move on. I really don’t know. But it’s a nice thought.

I’ve wanted to go to a dog show ever since I fell for the breed almost 15 years ago. Dan could see how excited I was; so, being a good sport, he got us to Long Beach that Sunday in plenty of time to see the little Cardis in the show ring.

I expected to have a great time, and I did. But I was not prepared for what happened that day. Stay tuned… I’ll tell you the rest of the story on Sunday.

"The corgi with a tail" - Cardigans on parade!

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.

I'm really glad I wrote the previous entry when I did. Nathan let me know it was time on November 15th, and I was kissing his sweet head when he drew his last, peaceful doggy breath. Up until the last day, he was smiling and shadowing me, if slowly and with extra effort. In fact, he was like that until the last few hours.

Thanks for the good times, old man.

The kids were going to their dad's that night, and I let them know Nathan was probably not going to make it. So they were able to say their goodbyes, and I was able to be the grownup and make the decision to help him before he was suffering too much. Outside the vet's office, I sat with him in the car an extra moment, listening to the sublime irony of R.E.M.'s "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" playing on the radio.

My wonderful vet, Dr. Speas, stayed after office hours for us and Dan and I were both there. Anyone who's had to make that decision knows how sad and painful it is. My friends, I will not revisit that scene, because I have cried enough and I know you did too, when it was your time.

Since he's been gone, there have been a number of very interesting and serendipitous events. I'll be writing about them soon. Stay tuned and thanks to all my readers for your compassion and support.

Much love to you all.

(title quote by great American philosopher Dr. Seuss.)

In Praise of the Old Dog

Are you kidding me? Who could resist that face?

Once upon a time, there was a woman who wanted to have a baby. This proved to be a difficult thing, and when the doctors told her they couldn’t figure it out, she said to her husband:

“Well, if we can’t have a baby, can we at least get a dog?”

So with the same fervor she had once reserved for studying fertility books, she set about researching dog breeds. They wanted a big dog – her husband wanted a Boxer – but they had a small yard. One day, as she pored over her dog books, the little Corgi caught her eye.

But not the Pembroke Welsh Corgi, the more popular tan-and-white fluffball with no tail, the Queen’s dog of choice. No, she noticed the lesser-known Cardigan Welsh Corgi: larger than the Pembroke, in more colors, and sporting a splendid brush of a tail. Hm, she thought, this is a dog who thinks he is big, but has little stubby legs. Just right for our yard.

There happened to be a Cardigan breeder in a nearby town, so the man and the woman went out for a visit. As soon as she saw the sweet smiley-faced big-eared dogs, she was in love. And so, not too much later, they found themselves matched up with a little brindle boy of their very own.

They named him Nathan Junior, after her favorite movie, Raising Arizona. Nathan Junior is the name of the baby stolen by Hi and Ed when they could not have one of their own. So the name was ripe with meaning.

They loved their little Nathan Junior. He was sweet and happy and made them laugh. He came with them to parties, and their friends fawned over him, because he just had something special. People had never seen a dog quite like him: a long stout body, but with short legs and big feet, giant bat-ears crowning his head, and that thick sweep of a tail. Nathan was a show-quality dog, brindle-brown with a white ruff and beautiful symmetrical markings on his face. But they didn’t show him; he was their devoted pet.

The woman was very happy with her new companion. And then – when Nathan was just about to graduate from puppy kindergarten – she found out she was pregnant.

Now fast forward 14 years. Nathan has been by her side through not just one but three babies, all of whom he treated with patience and love. Nathan moved with the family to California, where after a time the woman and her husband divorced, and his unfaltering devotion and happy doggy smile helped her and the kids get through it. He was loved, inexplicably and for all her life, by a black cat named Alabama, until she died last August. He now has a vivacious two-year-old rescue mutt named Clementine as his constant companion.

Nathan is old now. He's hard of hearing and has cataracts. He barks a little too loudly, as if to say, “I’m still here… right?” The beautiful symmetrical markings on his face are spotted with grey hairs. The damp, leathery surface of his nose has spots that are hardened and dry.

Recently he has developed a pronounced head-tilt, which the vet says is a sign of neurological damage: maybe a stroke, a tumor, or just old age. He looks at the woman with his head cocked to almost 90 degrees. Sometimes his tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth. He can’t always get those stubby back legs underneath him without help, so sometimes he pulls himself around with his front legs, cheerfully, like it’s no big deal that he's dragging his butt. He still asks to go outside and can walk, with help, to do his business.

Now that he’s old, he sleeps a lot, but always in the room she is in. If she leaves the room for more than a few minutes, he struggles to his feet to find her. “Oh Nathan,” she coos, “you’re my little shadow. Come on, let’s go lie down in here,” and she strokes his graying hair and kisses his big ears.

And he sleeps.

The woman doesn’t know how many more days or weeks or months she will be able to look up from her writing and see him snoozing across the room. She cares for him as if he’s a beloved grandpa in hospice care. She spends extra moments beside him rubbing his tummy and thinks about the years they’ve had. She is not the same woman who cuddled a brindle pup near a whelping pad at the breeder’s home: she has lived through the bliss of her babies’ birth and the heartache of a failed marriage; moved across the country and started her life completely over, watching her fortunes rise and tumble; lost old friends and found new ones; helped her children grow into young vibrant human beings; and even found a new love.

And every day he has been there, the big-eared smiley-faced dog, wanting nothing more than her presence and a good meal and the occasional cookie. The thought of losing him lies dormant now in her mind. She knows it is coming, but she's waiting until the very last moment before she must face it. For now, he is comfortable. For now, she wants only to remember what a good dog he has been. So she writes about him now, because she doesn’t want to write after he’s gone.

And he is there, snoozing across the room, one stumpy foot twitching as he chases squirrels in dream land, one giant bat ear to the ceiling. There's an old Irish proverb that says “a dog owns nothing, yet is seldom dissatisfied.”

He owns one thing and always will. He owns my heart completely. I will love you forever, Nathan Junior, the best dog ever.

Cornerstone's Nathan Junior, eight months old, was the star of our Christmas card in 1996. 
You can see why I was so crazy about him. Look at that smile! Look at those mitts!