Not MY dog...

It's true. Technically, they are not my dogs. Like many today, we are a blended family, his, hers, mine, ours. Roger, his ex, and I ( big hearted co-dependent aka glutton for punishment) share custody of their family dogs. Imagine the adjustment as interior designer with imported wool area rugs, sofa and chairs in pale yellow, custom made bedding and draperies shares home with wet, shedding, roommates totally lacking manners. They waltz in, think " nice digs and look at those great nineteen inch square chew toys on the sofa!". Apparently, beautiful decor and and happy home are not synonymous with rambunctious dogs present.

Cast of characters, in order of appearance:
Mattie, cocker spaniel who thinks she is Kim Kardasian channeling an Italian dominatrix with anger management issues. Both of us being menopausal, we are simpatico. She rules the house, demands adoration and gets it.
Bentley, teenaged golden retriever with low ambition. Think Owen Wilson on speed with ADD, adorable, but suffering from kleptomania. He has trained me to give him treats in exchange for giving me back the shoe, steak knife, or tv remote... Only pretends to be dopey and feigns innocence in a bid for winning an Oscar. He is totally terrified of Mattie.
Sometime visitor, Rocco, a rescue from Lake County known for its meth labs. Part pit bull and totally misunderstood, he belongs to Roger's daughter. He lived with us for about six weeks and now occasionally comes for dinner. His basso profundo bark terrorizes the neighborhood. He may have a career doing voice overs for vicious attack dogs. He loves his crate, going to bed early with cookies and milk, sleeping late and reading Thich Naht Hanh. A gentle soul dedicated to curbing his leash aggression in a twelve step program. He looks like Vin Diesel but prefers the Prius to fast cars. He also avoids the wrath of Mattie. Like Bentley, he thinks he is a lap dog.

Things really get interesting in the kitchen. Galley style, I have 36" by eleven feet of runway workspace. Just wide enough to open the oven and dishwasher. Imagine cooking dinner in that space with eight extra legs, two tennis balls and one large thwapping tail. They are an appreciative audience sitting as close as possible to the action with paws crossed in anticipation. With rapt attention, they take notes as food critics for the canine edition of Bon Appetit. Bentley has devoured a copy of MY LIFE IN FRANCE by Julia Child. Like Julia, he believes every sauce is better with a dallop of butter. In preparation for one dinner party, he absconded with not one, but two sticks of butter that I had softening at the back of the stove. One he ate wrapper and all. Calorie conscious, he discarded the second wrapper in the yard.

Retired now, Roger spends his days hiking the hills with the dogs. Everyone breaks even on calories, so dinner indulgence is guilt free. The dogs know everyone in the neighborhood and which houses to visit and score a treat. They provide instant affection, endless entertainment and constant reminders on what is really important. In our house, life has gone to dogs and we wouldn't have it any other way.