time for a comeback

Having recently retired from the overly strenuous job of working one day a week at a fabulous photography studio (epagafoto.com), I find myself with a bit of time on my hands (and hopefully also on my side, but statistically...).  For the last two days I've been re-reading posts from a previous blog and have been, alternately, laughing and crying and wondering why the hell I said some of the things I said.

As I await knee surgery and lots of time to ponder what the next chapter of my life shall entail, I'm finding the urge to pull the stopper out of those creative writing juices and let them flow once again.  To which - I'm sure - you are all completely and utterly overjoyed to hear.

Here's what I can promise...
It will be real.  Life at this stage is full of funny, poignant and difficult moments.  I promise not to hold anything back.

To that end, some posts will be inappropriate for small children.  And men.  And possibly some of my relatives.

I also promise to be semi-regular in my posting, much like my bodily functions these days.

I will request - from you, dear readers - a small time commitment to read my musings...brevity is not my forte.

Until I can get the stove firing on all burners, here's a previously published post about our beloved black lab, Zooey, who gave us companionship, wet kisses and lots of life lessons.  Enjoy...

Zooey, the Kong Addict
(disclaimer...the following is in no way intended to minimize the devastation of addiction.  It's simply meant to make you smile)

Her name is Zooey.  Z-O-O-E-Y.  Pronounced zo ee.  She's six and a a half years old.  And she's a Kong addict.  For those of you unschooled in the dark underbelly of dog toys, a Kong is a red, hard-as-nails rubber "ball" that could, quite possibly survive a nuclear holocaust.  Some people cram peanut butter into its cavity to give their dog a more frenzied experience, but Zooey takes it straight up.

The signs of Zooey in need of a fix are unmistakable.  She pants/huffs around the house, saliva slowly dripping from her jowls (OK, that doesn't happen...but it makes for good tv/blogging).  She goes from room to room, frantically, in search of her stash.  Usually when she gets this way it means her Kong is in a room with the door closed, making it impossible for her to get to her "sugar."

When we, a family who - honestly - has consistently enabled her by opening doors that should clearly remain tightly closed, can no longer stand her agony, we grudgingly respond, saying "Zooey...this is the LAST time.  For real."  

And we open the door.

Sometimes, the Kong has rolled under a chair or table, making the smackball even more of a forbidden pleasure.  She sees it.  We see it.  She knows we see it.  We know she knows we see it.  And what do we do?  I can't count the number of times I've been on my knees, reaching through dust bunnies, spider webs and discarded Twinkies wrappers to retrieve the very thing which could ultimately destroy her.  (Sorry...I sometimes get caught up in the drama and can't help myself.)

Oh, sure, she makes empty statements that she can give it up at any time, that it really is NOT a problem at all.  But, as sure as the new dawn appears every day, she comes padding up the stairs with that Kong in her mouth, carefree, dosed and happy to be a dog.

She needs help.  We need help.  We need...an intervention.

We had to put Zooey down a few years ago.  It was a heart wrenching decision, one many of you have probably experienced.  We still have her Kong.  RIP, Zooey.  We miss you.