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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=finXDHZ2_fU We have heard the word diva used to describe musicians and actresses, but what exactly is a diva?  Diva has become such a common, over-used word that it can even be found plastered on the bums of sweatpants worn by little girls. So, I am not being capricious when I say that Molly Muffin, my ten pounds schnauzer poodle mix, is a diva. She sleeps with her head on my plush, ridiculously-expensive, ergonomically-designed pillow. In fact, she will not sleep on any other pillow. She likes to have her fur dried with a blow drier when she comes back from a walk in the snow or rain. A few times a day, she brings her toy and drops it at my feet. If I do not pay heed, she will nudge it closer to me. If I still do not respond, she will move close to me and stare with a haughty, imperial gaze. She does not cower, does not back down. Her gaze is unflinching, her stance determined until it is simply impossible for me to ...

Since moving from the frozen wastelands of Alaska to the sandy beaches of Florida, I like to take long, leisurely jogs in the morning. Sometimes I go by myself. Sometimes my daughter joins me. Usually, Molly Muffin, my eleven-pound schnauzer-poodle mix trots along beside me. Molly is a good jogging buddy because she'll sense when I am getting tired, darts ahead, and then look back at me as if to say, "Is that all you got? Come on, you big sack of lazy bones! Get going!" This morning we power-walked to a charming coastal village two miles up the road. Molly sniffed the ground, tried to chase her tail, barked at people jogging by, and relieved herself (three times). Her head was up, her nails clicked on the paved path, and her ridiculously plumed tail waved happily with each step. She was in true, dauntless Molly form. Just before we got to Miss Lucille's Gossip Parlor, a watering hole that offers pungent coffee and tasty tidbits about locals, we veered off the path a...

When I was a child, I often imagined myself all grown up, working as an investigative reporter at some busy, prestigious big-city newspaper. Well, I got the job at the big city newspaper, but that was years ago, before marriage, kids, and multiple moves. My dreams of becoming an award-winning investigative reporter have been placed neatly on a shelf between a box containing old journals and my microscopic cheerleader uniform (why do I keep that around, just to taunt my post 20-something pear shape?) These days, I occasionally write and sell articles, work on my sixth pre-published novel, and maintain this blog. Oh! Wait! I also write a monthly column for a regional magazine about dogs. Yes folks, I am Dear Labby . My woofs of wisdom ... err ... words of wisdom are not likely to win me a Pulitzer, but I like to think they provide a different sort of edification, one that can't be measured in big dollars or fame beyond furry creatures. Read, enjoy, and hopefully chuckle a time or tw...

My dog is neurotic. I am serious, Molly Muffin, the ten pound schnauzer-poodle mix I have written about in other articles, has issues. I told you that she thinks the ravens that live in the trees in our backyard are her mortal enemies, right? When she sees one, she does this odd Bruce Lee-like vocalization, a high-pitched, warbling “waaaaaa” that can frighten the breath out of someone (especially, let’s say, if they are home alone, at night). Well, after months of fruitless chases across the yard, ending in the ravens flying to the tops of the trees and Molly barking madly, she has adopted a sneakier tactic. She half buries herself in a snowdrift and lies in wait. So far, none of the ravens have fallen for her commando act. Though she is white and blends in with the snow fairly well, I think her long, scraggly, wagging tail gives her away. She’s like a soldier decked out in camouflage, standing in the jungle, waving a flag. I confess, it is great fun to sit on the porch and watch ...

I have a confession to make: crazy dog people always frightened and confused me. You know the ones that speak to their pets in baby-talk, carry photos of Fido in their wallets, or dress their poodles in pink parkas? Honestly, they just used to freak me out. Don’t get me wrong, I have always liked dogs. I just never really bonded with a dog, not on a human level anyway. I mean, you can’t take your schnauzer to the spa or your Newfoundland to Nordstrom’s, can you? Dogs are not allowed in hospitals, grocery stores, movie theaters, or the local Panera Bread Company. This is America, not France. Although the canine-crazy French might disagree with the finding, according to the Coalition for Living Safely with Dogs, “most recent estimates indicate that there are more than 60 million pet dogs in the U.S., more per capita than any other country in the world.” If that is the case, why don’t we revere Rover the way our French counterparts do? In Paris, they even have special street and side...