Somebody stop me!

We do NOT need a dog. I do NOT want a dog.

Then why do I keep thinking about dogs?! Is this what a midlife crisis feels like? Could almost-39 be my midlife? (Don't answer that.)

I took Charlie to the Humane Society today to meet Chyna. Sweet greyhound mix Chyna. Seven-year-old, who's gonna adopt her Chyna? She was very sweet. Built like a greyhound, though smaller and not quite as skinny.

We took her out into the fenced area. She was quite happy to leave her kennel. But once we got into the play area outside, she didn't want to have much to do with us. Charlie was disappointed that she didn't want to play ball. Instead, she tried to hide between my legs. She didn't even want a treat. Sadly (and thankfully), Chyna is not meant to be in our house. If I lived alone, Chyna would be perfect. But I live with three kids (4 if you count Mike) who want a dog that will play with them.

We went back inside where Charlie was immediately taken by Ellie, who I was not enamored by at all. Ellie looks like she would chew your face off. As soon as we walked up to the kennel she was jumping up. I could just see myself spending the next 10 years trying to wrestle the dog into submission every time the doorbell rings. Besides, Ellie's info said "I'm sweet, but I need to work on my manners." Yeah, sorry Ellie. Better luck next time.

There was another dog who caught my eye, Beto. He looked a little like Benji and was an older dog as well. But lucky for me, Beto was just fixed yesterday, so I couldn't do anything more than coo to him through the kennel fence.

So we left, blessedly dog-less, and I felt pretty good about my level of personal restraint. Until I got home and found a Facebook message from my friend Kris whovolunteers for the Humane Society and who started this whole dog talk by posting a link on her own Facebook page.

"Check out this dog in the small dog room on he HSI website. VERY cool dog, and sturdy enough for your family, I think......I had him outside and he seemed like a perfect family dog. His name is Ricky."

Ricky is an Icelandic Sheepdog mix and is two years old:

As I said earlier, somebody stop me!

To show that I'm not anti-dog, just trying to maintain sanity (or the semblance of sanity) at home, I'll encourage you dog-minded folks to help Kris in her quest to get her Brutus crowned 2010 Mutt Strutt Poster Pooch. Vote for as little as $1.

Who could say no to this face:

To read more Kris's affectionate canine, and to cast your vote for Brutus, click here.

Chaos?

Wow! What a crazy day I've had. I'm surprised I'm still awake to even write this. But amazingly, I am. The day went a bit like this:

7:30-11:00am Work from home, shower, get the kids ready for swim practice.

11:10am -- Take kids to swim practice and wait for Mike to arrive.

11:45am -- Take Annie with me to lunch (Chipotle), to the Humane Society to check out a dog (They were closed, probably a sign we do not need a dog.) and to my office.

12:45pm -- 3:15pm Work at the office.

3:30pm -- Drop Annie off at the swim meet, head to the emergency room

3:45pm - 4:50pm -- Hang out in the ER, get the all clear and head to the swim meet

5:00pm -10:00pm -- Get to the meet in time to watch Robbie's first race, watch several other races, then get drafted to be a ribbon writer. Write 100+ ribbons. Stay late for last home meet pizza party.

10:15pm -- Arrive home, put everyone to bed and watch the news about Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson.

What? You need some clarification about some of that? Well, the dog. We absolutely do NOT need a dog. But I saw this greyhound mix on the Humane Society website (I blame my friend Kris who posted the link on her Facebook page!) and I can't stop thinking about her. Her name is Chyna and she's 7 years old. Isn't she cute:

As I said, we do not need a dog. Of course that's what I said about a cat, too. Mike says that I am addicted to chaos. Hmmm...I'll have to think about that.

The ER trip was a $100 charge for peace of mind. I woke up this morning with a deep pain in my upper calf. Not excruciating, but noticeable. It didn't go away and seemed to be getting a little worse as the day went on. I tried rubbing it, stretching it. Nothing seemed to help.

Most ordinary people would just shrug it off. However, I am not only addicted to chaos, but six years ago I had a pulmonary embolism (blood clot in my lung). About 1/2 the people who have PEs don't live to blog about them. So, around 2:30pm, I called my doctor just to let them know and see if they had any suggestions about what to do. They told me they couldn't fit me in, but they considered the situation urgent and suggested I go to the urgent care or ER to have it checked.

So then I called my friend Beth to ask her opinion (she's a dietitian -- but that's medical enough in my book). Then I called my mom to ask her opinion. Beth called her sister-in-law who works as a physician assistant at a doc's office with a walk-in clinic. The SIL said go to the ER, that an urent care wouldn't be able to diagnose it.

Having gotten the same answer about 4 times, I reluctantly drove myself to the ER. They got me in right away (thankfully they weren't busy) and within 30 minutes or so had an ultrasound tech doing a scan of my leg. I think I apologized to the doc, the nurse and the u/s tech for coming to the ER for this, but they all assured me that with my history, I did the right thing. Whatever. Fortunately, no blood clot. A couple of random enlarged lymph nodes, but nothing to worry about. And soon I was off to the swim meet!

My leg still hurts, but at least I know it won't kill me in my sleep.

So after all that craziness (chaos?! Maybe Mike is right?), I'm hoping for a nice quiet day tomorrow.

Lost cat?

I'm not really a cat person. (Actually I'm not really an animal person at all.) But about 18 months ago, I agreed to chaperone a Girl Scout field trip to the Humane Society and there was this little gray kitten there named Smokey.

For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about this kitten. About two days after the field trip, I was still thinking about Smokey and how his days were probably numbered. So I took Mike to the Humane Society and showed him the kitten.

For some crazy reason, we decided to adopt Smokey. "Cats are a whole lot easier to take care of than dogs," I reasoned. Plus, we felt the lesson in responsibility would be good for the kids. Their first responsibility was to re-name the kitten. They chose Dungy after the then-coach of the Indianapolis Colts.

Even though Dungy had been a stray, we decided that he would be an indoor cat. So we had his front claws removed to protect our furniture. And for several months, we were all very happy. Then spring arrived and Dungy began crying to go outside. I had no idea a cat could meow so loudly and so persistently. So we let him out.

At first Dungy stayed in our yard. Then he started venturing to the house next door, often meowing to be let inside there. They often obliged. Guess it takes a village to raise a cat, too.

About nine months after Smokey became Dungy, I got a call from a neighbor a few houses down. She had painters at her house and they'd left the front door open. Dungy took that as an open invitation and wandered into her house. She was newly pregnant and worried about being around a cat, so I quickly went and retrieved our feline trespasser.

Since then, Dungy has gotten more adventurous in his escapades, going as far as a block away. I know because every couple of weeks we get a phone call from someone the street over asking if we've lost our cat, saying they've got him. Sometimes instead of a call, civic-minded little girls come walking up to our front door, errant cat in arms.

All of this is a little confusing to me. I thought the whole point of having a cat was that they didn't need a leash or a fence. I thought opening the door and letting them roam was what you did with cats, that they'll come home when they are ready. If that's true, then why do people keep calling asking if our cat is lost?

So c'mon cat people (and cat haters), enlighten me. Should I not let him outside any more? Should I take off his collar so people quit calling to tell me he is alive?

"Thank you" would be nice

I am NOT an animal person. My favorite kind of dog is stuffed. People who kiss their pets on the lips or let the animal lick them in the face kind of gross me out.

But a few years ago, I chaperoned a Girl Scout field trip to the Humane Society. That's where I saw "Smokey," a little gray kitten who'd been there for six weeks or so. He was cute, I had to admit.

For the next couple of days, I couldn't stop thinking about that kitten. I worried that his days were numbered. I took Mike back o the shelter to look at him and we decided to take him home. I must have been under the influence of heavy drugs or severe lack of sleep, or both.

Nonetheless, a little bit of paperwork and a check for $100 and Smokey was ours. The kids were elated and for a few days, I was totally the coolest mom on Earth.

We renamed the kitten Dungy, after the head coach of the Indianapolis Colts, and bought him a blue Colts tag shaped like a dog bone. We bought cat toys and a special bed. We had officially become cat people.

And so how does Dungy repay me for saving his life? By biting my toes and meowing incessantly at me at 4:30am today. Darn cat. A simple thank you would have sufficed.