A Tail-Wagging Celebration

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We have a dog that we saved from the scrap heap a couple of years ago. She goes by the name of Paris, or Pair-Pair, or Pair-Potater, or Paris Bueller. She is a ball of energy, of course, but what blows my mind about her is that she should be settled, at least a little, by now.

Except she isn't. She still sleeps in the crate downstairs and from the moment when I open the lock on her cage, until the moment she closes her eyes at night (which I still can't imagine) she is a whirlwind of excitement.

She's excited to eat. Excited to chase Melky, excited to see me. Excited to go outside. Excited to come in.

Actually, her excitement is a tad aggravating at times.

If I sit on the couch, she sits right at my arm, and tries her best to lick my face. Fun, huh? Reminds you that she is a loving creature, right?

Except she doesn't stop.

No matter how long I sit there.

She looks, smiles, tries to lick. Looks again. If I push her away she gets a hurt look in her eyes.

"Okay, Pair-Pair," I try. "I love you, now please let me watch Judge Judy."

Lick again.

"I'm calling Michael Vick," I tell her. "You can go live with him until he dunks you under water."

The kids laugh. Paris seems to laugh.

"Let her outside," I say.

The mere mention of the word fires her up.

Ah, to be a dog. What a life!

As long as you don't run into Vick.

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