I just learned that today is Love Your Pet Day. Silly, really, to designate one day of the year for pet owners to do something they ought to do nonstop. But it gives me an excuse to talk about Freddy.

You may know Freddy from his rocky adoption odyssey or his slow-improvement narrative. Or maybe you’ve been subjected to his glass-shattering bark over the phone or in person. (If that’s the case, I’m sorry.)

Before I go further, I’m going to break in with Freddy’s alleged genetic breakdown, in case you’re wondering. Yes, I’m one of those people who indulged in a doggy DNA test. It was something of a joke gift to my husband for our anniversary—a silly indulgence. But interesting, really, since we’d always assumed we had a thirteen-pound Jack Russell–rat terrier mix on our hands. Nay! Here’s what Embark says about our pup:

Freddy is a truly—truly—strange dog. Highly neurotic, he’s on the maximum dosage of fluoxtetine. But that med doesn’t seem to touch his defining idiosyncrasies.

In the same way that he is a combination of black and white, his behavior is built of competing contradictions. He’s a four-legged paradox.

Almost every day, I drive Freddy to one of three lovely nearby spots for a walk. Once I’ve collared, harnessed, and leashed him, he is raring to go to the car. He’ll even scratch at the door to the garage and/or the car.

But when we arrive at our destination, I have to pry him out of the car. Here he is, on the passenger-side floor, silently screaming, “Noooo! Don’t make me go outside in the fresh air!”

There’s an upside to his weird walking anxiety, though. First, Freddy never stops to sniff or relieve himself, so our walks are delightfully efficient. (I don’t even carry poop bags—I gave them all away.) And second, Freddy is completely nonreactive to other dogs. If they bark, if they stick their noses between his back legs, he just broadcasts, “I don’t want any trouble.”

Toward the end of every walk, he will start to pull the leash a bit, eager to return to the car. Such torture he endures, going on the very walk he hurried to initially! 🙄 Sigh. It’s just the way he is.

The other bizarre behavioral contradiction centers on my husband, Bob. Bob has never been anything but loving, patient, and kind to Freddy since the day we adopted him in the summer of 2020. In the right circumstances, Freddy returns the affection. And yet. If Bob is sitting in his comfy chair and moves to get up ... if he dares to close his laptop ... Freddy will flip his lid. He’ll go into full alert mode, barking a warning to me: “The man is moving! The man is moving! Danger! Danger!” His hackles go up. The decibels of his horrible, screeching bark hit the red zone. He doesn’t threaten Bob; he just wants the world to know that the y-chromosome monster is up to something.

I so often wonder what makes our dog the way he is. Was he abused as a puppy? Neglected? Or is he just genetically predisposed to hardcore, crippling worry? (Bob calls Freddy Don Knotts sometimes.)

We’ll never know. We’ll just keep proving to him over and over that he’s safe and that we love him—and not just on Love Your Pet Day.

A weird thing happened. Two weird things.

On Thursday, I was talking with my friend Vickie. She was struggling to remember the name of the bird pictured above. She said she always has trouble remembering this name, and she began to describe the bird.

“MAGPIE!” I blurted out. “I always have trouble remembering that name, too! It’s on my list called ‘Words I can never remember.’”

That was the first weird thing: magpie eludes both Vickie and me.

Then tonight, my husband and I were struggling to remember the word that describes large-spotted animals like paint horses and our dog Freddy, shown here. I had to lean on ChatGPT to remind me. The word is piebald.

How’s that for a salacious headline? Salacious is a great word that means something like raunchy or obscene. Read to the end if you want to learn about its etymology. (And of course you do.)

Testicle, Sara. Get to the testicle.

But wait! First I need you to know that the photo above is not a testicle. It’s merely a fruit that my mother described as “testicular” in appearance: a fig. I’m comfortable writing a salacious headline, but I draw the line at showing a photo of a testicle.

OK. Onward. To the testis, singular.

Wait, though. Can I just interrupt this story to tell you about one of the more embarrassing moments of my life? I was in high school, and I was trying to ask a teacher—in front of a full classroom—whether he’d be returning our graded tests that day. To put a playful spin on things, I used a diminutive of the word “tests.” Yes: I asked about “our testies.” Out loud. 💀

So, back to Ralph’s testicle. Remember how I told you that I stole two puppies when I was a kid? Ralph and Floyd were their names, and they lived as “outside dogs,” meaning that they were filthy and ill-mannered and not allowed in our living space. They generally ran around, dug into the lawn in pursuit of moles, and hosted ticks of various sizes. 

They were little terrier mongrels. Ralph was mostly black; Floyd, the color of a used cigarette filter. They were probably in the ten-to-twelve-pound range and had no trouble escaping our backyard and running loose—it happened all the time. They weren’t the only dogs roaming the neighborhood, either, so it was no great surprise that they sometimes got into fights with other dogs.

Did I mention that this was the 1970s? Things were different then.

Anyway, one day, I noticed that Ralph had sustained a heinous-looking injury in his nether region.

(Interestingly, when I looked up the term “nether region,” Wikipedia informed me that yes, it does mean “Euphemism or slang for the buttocks, groin and genitals of human body, separately or collectively.” But it also means “Hell, the Underworld, or any place of darkness or eternal suffering.” Take from that what you will.)

When I saw Ralph’s bloody boo-boo, I reported it to my parents so they could do whatever grownups did to take care of such things.

And it was not until decades later that I realized that what they did to address this situation was absolutely insane.

I wasn’t present for the any of the conversations between my parents and the veterinarian back then, so I can't tell you who decided what tack to take or what the rationale was.

But I do know the following, because my sister corroborated it.

After Ralph sustained an injury between his hind legs and he was taken to the vet…

...he came home with some black stitches and...

ONE REMAINING TESTICLE.

Yes, a man with a veterinary degree decided to anesthetize my peripatetic, fertile little mutt and remove only ONE of his puppy-propagating sperm sacs. (I detest the word “sac,” but I will employ it here, where it is so perfectly accurate.)

What the actual furry, four-legged fornication?

Did people understand reproduction back then? Did they believe it was a mortal sin to remove a male’s virility? Was superstition involved? Laziness? Alcohol? I so wish I could ask my parents, but alas, they’re no longer available.

If you have any insight into the animal-control practices in Oklahoma City at the end of the Ford administration, please share. Otherwise, you can just let the absurdity of this tale wash over you like I did when it occurred to me a few years back.

Spay and neuter your pets, people. Completely.

OK, I promised the backstory on salacious. It comes from the Latin salax, meaning “lustful,” which comes from salire, “to leap.” As the wonderful Online Etymology Dictionary explains, salacious probably came from this concept: “‘fond of leaping,’ as in a male animal leaping on a female in sexual advances.”

Freddy didn't start out as a dog. When we picked him up from Farfel's Farm & Rescue on July 16, 2020, he was nothing but a quivering, biting diarrhea-producer. (You can read about those early days, when his name was Nolan, here.)

He would barely come out of his crate. He would barely eat. Every toileting excursion (with a leash because we had no enclosed yard at the time) was either harrowing or exhausting—usually both. He would spin around and try to escape his harness. He would fearfully listen to every noise as if it were an approaching lion or bomb squad. He always kept his tail tucked firmly between his legs and would shrink away if you tried to touch him.

This went on for a long, long time. When Freddy finally dared to emerge from his crate, he wouldn't walk more than a few feet. He was terrified of hard floors, so he stayed on the carpet. Carpet that he soiled more times than I can count.

After something like a week, we saw his tail start to go up. After about a month, he was bold enough to go into our kitchen. The first time we heard him bark, we were utterly shocked.

Slowly, slowly, over the months, he continued to improve. He learned to sniff around the kitchen floor to find all the bits of food that seem to fall there. He learned the joys of a belly rub. He began to tolerate walks. Eventually, I was able to pick him up.

In March of 2021, we moved to a house with a fenced-in backyard, and that made a tremendous difference. Freddy started to explore. He began playing with the squirrels who love to taunt him. He ate things he shouldn't. He rolled around in substances he thought smelled beautiful. He got baths. 

Last month, he survived a night of boarding when we went out of town. He went to the vet and got immunizations without incident. And about a week ago, he got his final dose of Prozac, which he'd been on since the early days.

There remained just one more hurdle.

Both the condo we used to live in and the house we're in now have more than one story. But Freddy had never once made it up or down an entire flight of stairs.

Until this past Sunday, July 11, 2021, that is. On that day, my husband and I sat on the basement stairs together and encouraged Freddy to come down a few steps. Oh, but he wanted to. But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Until later that night, when I was in the basement doing laundry, and I noticed that I had surprise company: a little thirteen-pound terrier mutt who had conquered his final limitation.

​Congratulations, Freddy! You were worth the wait.

Look, it was a long time ago. It was a decision made with my heart, not my head. And Lisa Perez didn't deserve them.

Here's what I remember.

I must have been something like six years old. Lisa Perez, who was about my age, had two adorable new puppies with her in front of her house—a black one and a beige one. Were the puppies in a box? Was Lisa holding them? I'm not sure. What I recall is that she claimed to have found them, and she told me in a sort of braggy way, "My mom says if I don't find who they belong to, I get to keep them."

Oh, no. That could not happen.

Lisa Perez shouldn't simply get to keep two tiny, out-of-the-blue, windfall puppies. And her mother probably hadn't actually given her permission, anyway. Lisa was a known teller of falsehoods. She had once pointed at some velvety moss growing on a rock and assured me it was gravity.

So, within a matter of seconds, I took action.

I started running down the street toward my house while calling, "Here, puppies! Here, puppies!"

And they ran after me! Clearly, they sensed who would make a better owner.

I don't know what ensued between the Perez parents and my own, if anything. All I know is that my Great Dog Robbery was successful, and I got to keep that pair of scruffy little curs.

My much older brothers named them Ralph and Floyd. But I often continued to refer to them as simply "puppies."​

​My career as a criminal was short, but it served me well.

Like just about everything else "in the time of COVID," adopting a dog is tricky. No more casually visiting shelters and interacting with a multitude of pups in person. You have to search online and make appointments. You have to meet dogs with half of your face covered and the smell of sanitizer on your hands.

And because everyone is stuck at home, a lot of people—particularly in Colorado—are adopting dogs right now. Inventory is tight. Dogs are flying off the proverbial shelves.

For example, a month or two ago, my husband (Bob) and I found a dog we liked down in Denver. Right before we got in the car for the long drive down (which would prove particularly trafficky and unpleasant that day), we called to make sure the dog was still available. He was. But by the time we arrived at the shelter, the dog was gone.

There were technical troubles with the application. There were emails and phone calls. But before too long ... success! We were deemed fit dog-parents. Before we could even meet this 14-pound creature (he was still in New Mexico), I paid $509.66, signed a contract, and began counting the minutes until we could pick him up.

We knew he'd be exhausted when we went to get him from Farfel's Farm & Rescue in Boulder. He would be coming straight from the vehicle transporting him and other dogs from Texas and New Mexico.

But things were worse than we'd anticipated.

"There's been a little incident," the woman behind the desk at Farfel's let us know when we arrived for our pickup appointment. The "incident" involved a frightened Nolan and a well-intentioned human trying to pick him up. And, well, a bite. (Dog-on-human, if you're wondering.)

OK. So now we were picking up a "dog that bites." But whatever— we were OK with that. (Just look at his picture.) It was decided that Nolan would stay in his dog crate so we could spare him the stress of taking him out. (And maybe spare ourselves from snapping jaws.)

The next few days were rough. The only way we could take Nolan outside for toileting was to carry him in the crate he stayed in all the time. He was very reluctant to leave it. Here he is on his second day with us: standing with three legs out, one leg in. He stayed in this position for a loooong time.

He developed a hardcore case of "stress colitis." That's fancy talk for explosive, unremitting, horrid-smelling diarrhea. So much of it. So often. Day after day. I've done so much carpet cleaning. (You know, I've never made a penny from affiliate links, but I will happily plant one right here for Nature's Miracle.)

This dog was such a basket case, in fact, I had to check with Farfel's Rescue about his backstory. They had described him as "a bit shy at first," but this he was beyond shy. He was a wreck. I texted the lovely woman from Farfel's and got the whole story.

When Bob learned this, he began indicating that he might not want to adopt this dog, after all. Nolan's brain probably isn't wired for human companionship, Bob conjectured.

But I knew we had a full two weeks to "try out" this dog. And I hoped that with enough affection, safety, peace, and consistency, he might begin to settle.

I wanted more than anything to avoid taking him to the vet for his gastrointestinal issues, because I knew it would only traumatize him more. Could strings be pulled with the Farfel's vets? Could we just give them a "sample" from Nolan (what a euphemism!) and get a prescription?

Nope.

​My sage friend Sara Webster told me what I didn't want to hear about the vet:

Sigh.

I bit that bullet and made an appointment.

By this point, Nolan was starting to make some progress. He'd graduated from his opaque Farfel's crate (see above) to a wire one that let him see out and get used to his surroundings. He'd even ventured out loose in the house a little. I hoped that the trauma of a car trip and vet visit wouldn't take him right back to square one.

On his sixth day with us, we took Nolan to the vet.

He survived.

He got meds.

​He got better.

And Bob's been won over. Nolan is a keeper! 🎉

I'm writing this on day ten. Nolan's belly is all better. He has an appetite. He has energy. He has a personality! Now all he needs is a new name.​ (Opinions of the following and suggestions welcome.)

Pandemic: bad.

Having to put down your beloved dog during a pandemic: extra bad.

Actually, I didn't have to do it myself—thank goodness. The wonderful, compassionate folks at Pets & Pals Veterinary Hospital in Lafayette, Colorado, have stayed open during this outbreak, and they handled the euthanasia. (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Below is a piece I wrote for my husband's dog photography website many years ago. I'll leave it here as a tribute to Little Guy, my funny, handsome, and tremendously comforting friend. ❤️

I've been attending a nifty little series hosted by AIGA Colorado for freelancers and entrepreneurs. Last night, the topic was "Workspace Matters," and the panel of speakers discussed coworking spaces, work habits, and the like.

At the conclusion, the moderator asked us to assess our own working spaces. And so I will.

Many days, I commute a whopping two miles to a fabulous coworking space called Confluence. I take advantage of their "hotdesk" membership, which lets me grab any open spot in a lovely central room. Confluence has free parking (though I may start biking or walking), a great kitchen and dining area, and complimentary coffee, soft drinks, and yes, beer. They host social/networking events where all of the members can get to know one another and learn what each of us does for work. We're going to start doing some volunteer work together, too. Possibly my favorite part about Confluence is the book club they hold every three weeks. To me, nothing beats a good book club, particularly one taking place about 20 paces from where I work. So my assessment of my coworking office is A-double-plus.

Now, some days (like today), I work from home. I love my home office, too. I can nap and fold laundry as needed, and I can work whenever I like—including before sunrise.

The central feature of my home office is my coworker, who shares an office chair with me. Little Guy is a chiweenie (chihuahua + dachshund) who loves to snooze on an old sleeping bag directly behind my back. My husband is chagrined by the ergonomic implications of the way I sit and implores me to invest in an Aeron chair. But if I were to do that, I think I'd have to keep Little Guy and his claws off of it, and I don't think I could bear it. I mean, really: could you?

​