• He never comes when he’s called and only responds when he feels like it–which means he’s never allowed off leash and some nights we can’t even get him to come inside.
• He’s an escape artist.  We lived in a house once with door handles that you push down to open and yea…he pretty much had that figured out day one.  Now we have a wireless collar on him which sets up a perimeter around the house and gives him a warning whistle if we gets too close and he is constantly testing it and gets out the minute the battery needs replacement.
• When he has his freedom he hunts the neighbors’ cats and barks at people walking down the street particularly if they are Asian or Black (see next line) and even chases bicyclists and runners.  Also he tramples the neighbors flowers.
• He’s racist.  We lived on a campus in New York and he would bark and scare only the Asian and Black faculty and students.  This aspect of Wado Dog mortifies me.
• He also hates all postal and UPS workers–we sometimes don’t get mail and packages delivered when he’s in the front yard.  He’ll start barking the moment the trucks enter the neighborhood and will not stop until they have passed our house.
• It is not uncommon to wake up at 2am to Wado Dog fighting with a raccoon.  The neighbors love it when this happens.
• Speaking of neighbors–they stop by to chat about Wado Dog with various levels of complaint.  At the last block party one new person said when I was introducing myself  and pointed to my house, “Oh you’re the one with the dog.  I’ve heard about you.”
• Wado Dog gets skunked every chance he gets.
• He digs holes everywhere including in my rose garden.  He also bites through the watering system’s tubing every time we replace it.
• One time he killed a fawn and proudly brought it back to our door.

Upon reading this Dearest Hubby’s response was, “I don’t know why we keep that dog.”  Of course deep down he loves Wado Dog and is secretly elated that I brought home a 4 month old puppy when my eldest was 4 months old herself even though he specifically said no dogs.  You’re welcome DH!

And that brings us to the rest of the story: How Wado Dog came into our lives.

We were in Texas.  The Girl was 4 month’s old.  911 had just happened and I was pretty freaked out and not venturing out of the house much with the baby.  One thing that I did do was visit and chant with Buddhist friends.  Just as I was leaving my friend’s house I noticed some boys hanging a puppy by the neck with shoelaces.  The puppy was twisting and struggling and was clearly being strangled.  I snapped and handed the Girl to my friend and shouted, “Hey!” running over to the puppy.  The boys scattered.  I called to my friend to get some scissors and I cut him down, put him in the car with The Girl and drove off.  My friend later disclosed to me that the SPCA had been called on that family before.  I knew I did the right thing.  No one who treats a puppy that way deserves to have him.

Now DH and I had talked about getting a dog before the baby arrived.  We even visited a shelter.  But after careful thought DH and I decided that we shouldn’t get a dog.  It just wasn’t the right time with a new baby and all the added responsibility.  So when I brought home this cute little puppy what did DH do?  Did he try and find him a home?  No, he named him Little Bear. And that was the beginning of a love affair with Little Bear who later became Wado Dog but that’s another story altogether.

Wado Dog beside his latest set of holes

Since I first started practicing this Buddhism 20 years ago (wow really?) this passage has stood out for me.  It has changed significance over the years.  At first it was about following my mentor’s path in fighting for world peace and becoming a deep blue activist for human rights.  Then it meant keeping up a consistent practice of meditation every morning and evening to deepen the color of faith.  When I got married, I wore a blue dress and had a Buddhist ceremony promising to continue to grow and develop that precious relationship.  Now this passage is all about my children.  I want so much for them to surpass me in terms of riches of the heart.  I wish for them an unshakable happiness and a life full of discoveries.  The how-to-build-this-life-for-them part is a bit fuzzy though.  Clearly I don’t keep the cleanest house and frequently wash the whites with the darks, and there’s a pile of unsorted socks in the laundry room with pairs the kids have grown out of by now.  But the house is relatively peaceful (except when it’s not) and I try and support my kids in what they like to do, and encourage them to get up at a Buddhist meeting and read a poem, and let them experience extreme boredom until a brilliant idea of something fun flashes into their brains.   I try and do my best while learning from all the crazy things I try–like coaching my son’s soccer team even though I’d never even played the game before.   So hopefully someday after getting washed in the indigo of our family life the kids will turn out stronger than I with a heart filled with hope, never letting go of their dreams, and with a seeking spirit to learn and do more.

DH: I like those shoes.
Me: Which?
DH: The high heel platform ones.
Me: Really?
DH: You know most women wear heels.

Platform Pumps

OK a little background for those of you unfamiliar with my stunning array of footwear. My most expensive pairs of shoes include my red cowboy boots and my Chaco sandals. Just about everything else I got at goodwill or a garage sale. So when I noticed a shoe warehouse next to my favorite coffee shop, the above conversation flashed into my head. Just a week away was a school potluck which was actually catered. (You can probably guess what the attire is like for a catered potluck dinner…) It occurred to me that I could pop into the shoe warehouse and pick up a pair of sexy shoes to wear to the potluck. Just my luck there was an entire section of platform pumps. I found a perfect pair that went with a grey dress already in my closet. And then I tried them on. Now I danced in 3 inch heels as Cha Cha in a middle school production of Grease—but there was no way I could walk across the store much less make it through an entire event. What was a girl to do? I bought them anyway. Eliciting advice from all the women I know who wear unbelievably high heels, (which mostly—ok only—included my very fashionable and stunning boss) I learned that the best thing is to practice on carpet a little every day. By the end of the week I could walk across the room, stumble up the stairs and was incredibly uncomfortable. In the end I decided that it was best to enjoy myself at the party and not obsess about my feet all night. Now I don’t have any data to support DH’s statement about most women, but I’m sure about one thing: I’m not like most women–which is why DH married me in the first place.