Happy 10th Anniversary to Me and Will (the Coonhound)

August 16 2000 I got my first dog. He was housed in a research facility in the basement of a major university hospital. I sat on the floor in the corridor while the research vet went into a door on my right to get him. It was Saturday morning - he was being snuck out. To my left was a door to a monkey room. I knew this because I could hear their shrieks.

Will was brought out with his own orange leash, a leash I still have. We walked him to my car and helped him in. The vet warned me he wasn't house trained and that I should tie him out. When I got him home I found out he could not go up stairs. I had to move his paws up the three steps to my front door. I tied him out and he was so terrified I never did it again.

He found my bed and got on it. I tried to put some plastic under him and he jumped down. It was eight years before he would get on furniture again.

I'm so glad you're in my life Sweet William.

Hitches and Racks - Canyon Bound - Best Friends Network

Hitches and Racks - Canyon Bound - Best Friends Network

Trip: Leg 2 Des Moines through Omaha - Canyon Bound - Best Friends Network

Trip: Leg 2 Des Moines through Omaha - Canyon Bound - Best Friends Network

Trip: Leg 1 - Canyon Bound - Best Friends Network

Trip: Leg 1 - Canyon Bound - Best Friends Network

My Walter Mossberg Moment

In switching from one laptop to another wouldn't it be nice if you could make a selection for each file, directory, or application that would archive it to local storage or to web storage, and when you are ready, with one action, all could be restored to a different machine?

Ani Gets Stuck

I stepped out the back door and called for Ani. She always comes running, even if she is busy. But she didn’t come. I called again, then again, and stepped out the back door. Past the house and into the back yard, I was starting to get worried. The garage door wasn’t blowing open, so she hadn’t locked herself in there again. I listened for whining or a whimper that would tell me she was hurt. Starting to worry that my beautiful girl had been stolen I continued past the garage. Ah, no worries, she was being Bad. Hind legs on a leaf pile, front legs inside the compost bin, smut on her face, she stood and looked at me. She did not move. She could not move. She couldn’t get out. Poor Ani, not until I lifted her front legs out of the bin was she free. She tore around the yard, crazy grateful.

Peace, Joe

I composed a perfect letter to you in my head. It said all the things I wanted to say, in a way I could publish. But I was driving at the time, so here is another shot.


I met your friend John K., who clearly loves you. I got to know your wife Chris, who sees the best in you. Her emotional intelligence, patience, and energy are astounding. She has since told me things that confirm my sad suspicions.

Babe is grieving, and Judy is acting out. Ani is confused, so I took her with me so that Chris could comfort the older ones. Ani, who you proudly introduced to me on Christmas Day as the last of your Giant Schnauzers. You were worried about your mortality compared with theirs. Four days later you died.

You left behind a wife both grieving and relieved. And a puppy who snuggles her big ridged head into my side for affection. She is used to being shouted at, and is eager to please, and reminds me daily of your capacity for love.

I keep seeing your face – smiling in a way I rarely saw you do. Smiling as if you were happy, which you never were.

The priest who said some words at the funeral home gave me two choices to read. One spoke of friendship, the other, torment. I chose torment.

I am so sorry, Joe. I hope you are on the Peace Train at last.