our "baby" Moo is not such a baby anymore. She just turned one in May, is as tall as Reekie, starting to fill out, and has a sleek, glossy, beautiful Shepherd coat with Husky colorings. The only puppy left in her can be found in her face, her big brown eyes, perpetually sad look, and black Husky rings around her eyes which join in the middle and extend down her nose. It is a mug cute enough to melt even the most hardened, crusty heart.

It is a visage that allows her to get away with far, far too much, especially when Mummy is doing the discipline.

Okay, even when I am doing the discipline.

And if there were any doubt as to her bidding a bon voyage to the pup years, it has been dispelled poste haste over the last couple of days.

Moo is in her first "big girl heat".

Anthropomorphism alert.

It is true. Moo is as ripe as a bitch can get. Just ask our comforter, or better yet, my bright white boxers (which were left on the floor). I am sure the red blotches did not come from The Goddess.

Well, fairly sure anyway.

We meant to get her spayed a long time ago. It is top priority now. I do not like having to place my feet with the utmost precision every time I walk hither and yon through the house. I do not like having to scrub my feet in the tub twenty times a day.

And she is more sulky than usual. She demands more attention, if that were possible. She is Reekie's antithesis.

I have half a mind to strap on an Always and mash a Pamprin into some cheese.

I am expecting any morning now to find every non-neutered male within a mile radius at our doorstep. I'll be waiting with the metaphoric aught .22.

Yet, beyond the sardonic wit, beyond the frustration, beyond the comedy, it is a reminder to me that dogs age far faster than their human companions ever want them to.

You will always be Baby Moo to me, though, Moo.

Be Well