Return of the Blog

Happy weekend everyone!  I'm bringing back my blog and am already cooking up my first post which I will put up tomorrow.  This will be my attempt to find good in the world and the community around us, use humor hopefully, be real and have some fun.  It will mostly NOT be political, but when something strikes me, I might throw that in there as well.  I figure I post enough about that on Facebook - not to complain but because I truly believe it matters.

The power of our words is one of the best gifts we have - and I will attempt to use mine to bring a little bit of peace and order in my life at a time when the world seems somewhat upside down.

Tune in tomorrow - I hope you will like it!

Running as Fast as I Can

A little over a year ago, I started this blog and wrote in my first post: “The milestone birthday of 40 will be here at the end of the year.   Not quite dreading it but also not jumping up and down for it to come, I find myself turning inward never quite content with the here and now, but striving to find the self awareness to know when I am in fact truly there.” Traveling back and forth between Portland, Maine and Washington, D.C. for the better part of a decade, I was always asking, “Are we there yet?” instead of just being present in the moment – that is, until this past week.

The 40^th birthday came and went in December with a wonderful trip to Costa Rica with four of my dear friends.  And I got to ring in the year with two special friends from Maine at their home in Santa Fe.  Somehow turning 40 was not the epic event I thought it might be – no mid life crisis or gripping depression, but instead great adventures, good food and new memories with some of the most important people in my life. 

When I got up on Monday, February 27^th, I thought it would be another ordinary week in Washington, and in fact, it was until 4:02 pm the next day.  That’s when news of Senator Olympia Snowe’s retirement hit Washington and gave new meaning to the term Snowmageddon.  For the next 24 hours, I would work with my boss Congressman Mike Michaud, one of the hardest working Members of Congress, to help guide him through his decision of whether or not to jump into the Senate race.  I packed the Jeep and my two dogs Alex and Hunter and drove through rain and snow to Maine to begin a potential Senate campaign.  But by Thursday night, Mike had decided not to run for the Senate and instead run for re-election to the House– believing there was still work to be done for the people of Northern Maine.  Perhaps the veteran he saw at the airport before his flight home sealed the deal for Mike when he asked him, “But who will fight for the veterans if you leave the House?” 

Mike’s decision behind him, I was faced with a decision of my own as Congresswoman Pingree was also considering a run for the Senate.  Ever since I was a young boy growing up in Biddeford, Maine, I had always wanted to run for Congress.  The son of a middle class family, I worked hard in Biddeford public schools and got accepted to Wesleyan University.  But paying for college was tough – it required financial sacrifice from both sets of my parents, it required me to snatch up every hour of overtime I could get at Wellby Super Drug Store at 5 Points in Biddeford, it required loans from the federal government, and it required a job during all four years of college.  There would be no study abroad or spring breaks in Florida – every spare dollar had to go to paying for college.  And when I was finished, I had the incredible opportunity to come home to Maine – an opportunity that I believe is slipping away for young people here in Maine. 

I also spent 10 years working for Congressman Michaud – and I learned the values of not making excuses, respecting people’s ideas different than your own, and putting what’s right for Maine above partisanship.  After consulting with my family, my two best friends in Portland and a handful of colleagues I have worked with over the years, I made the decision to run for Maine’s First Congressional District should Congresswoman Pingree decide to run for the Senate.  In the end, she made the difficult decision to run for the House, but during those six days, I had perhaps the most exciting, incredible experience of my life, and I wanted to share some of what happened on that short journey.

First and perhaps foremost, I was reminded why working for Congressman Mike Michaud is such an incredible honor.  When I told him of my desire to run, he was gracious and supportive and even called me each day to see how I was holding up.  Our nation needs more people like Mike Michaud in Washington.

The morning of my final decision, a call happened that I will never forget.  My step mom in Gorham called my mom in Biddeford to say this would be a full family effort on my behalf.  And every day of this brief campaign, all four of my parents remained true to that phone call.  I think the decision not to ultimately run was toughest on my sister as she was prepared to feed an army of volunteers throughout this campaign.  I had even appointer her “Comfort Captain.”

Friends from all parts of Maine and around the country offered to help with gathering signatures, setting up an online presence, writing a check – whatever we needed to get up and running.  In just 6 days, they helped put all of the mechanics in place to launch a top-notch campaign I know would have made the people of Maine proud.  Throughout this process, I learned how truly blessed I am to have so many loyal friends.  One friend who shall remain anonymous not only agreed without hesitation to send me $1,000 when I asked her, but got off the phone after my call and got checks from other family members, all of which had arrived in the mail by Tuesday. 

Getting on the ballot in Maine requires 1,000 certified signatures of registered Democrats.  Again – I was so humbled at the efforts of family and friends to collect these, and we were close to having what we needed when Congresswoman Pingree decided not to run for the Senate.  Others had their bags packed to come to Maine this weekend at their own expense to go door to door in my home town of Biddeford to complete the signature effort.

There are countless stories of friends giving selflessly of their time, and while I am single and have no children, I can honestly say I am lucky to have a supporting and loving family that numbers in the hundreds.  Many asked me last Wednesday if I was doing ok or if I was sad.  There was no sadness and in fact, I have never felt more happy or alive.  In those six days, I think I grew more as a person than in my previous 40 years on this earth.  I learned to always value your friends, to work hard for something you believe in, to rise above the petty and not sweat the small stuff, to never forget the importance of family, and most importantly, to be thankful for the opportunities you have in life and to appreciate the help of those who got your there.

Instead of asking myself, “are we there yet?” I think I will focus more on the present, because I think I have always ‘been there.”  No matter what happens in the future, I am most deeply blessed.  Working in the U.S. Congress has been an incredible honor – especially for a kid who grew up without privilege from a small town in Maine.   

Ready, Aim, Fire!

Several months ago, I agreed to help set up a gun safety and product demo for Smith and Wesson, a company that manufactures fire arms among other things in northern Maine.  They are a great company and provide good jobs for Mainers. 

I’ve never really been a fan of guns.  I have never hunted and guns were never a part of my family’s culture when I was growing up.  As a bright eyed uber liberal at Wesleyan University, the basis of the movie PCU which gives you an idea how liberal my college was, I remember trying to bring Sarah Brady to my college campus for a lecture on handgun control. 

But like with many things, we grow older, more tolerant of other views and less judgmental in our political views.  For the last 20 years, I have worked in politics in Maine and have come to see the other side of this issue – shooting and hunting is a part of Maine’s culture just like fishing, boating and hiking.  Over 60,000 households own a gun in Maine’s Second Congressional District.  And these folks take gun safety very seriously. 

Now with all of that said, I didn’t really think I was going to have to participate in this gun demo that we scheduled for this week.  But peer pressure set in, and it was important to our office that I participate. 

Dreary eyed and exhausted after the end of the debt limit debate and final votes, I begrudgingly made my way to the office on Wednesday morning, all the while dreading this activity I had reluctantly agreed to.  I deliberately waited until the end of the 4-hour demo hoping there wouldn’t be a lot of staffers around to watch what I was sure would amount to nothing short of a giant embarrassment. 

Well so much for deliberate planning.  I got lost in the underground parking garage as I trudged over and as if par for the course, I was picked up by one of the maintenance guys in his little buggy and driven to the proper location.  As we whizzed from level G1 to G2 and then back down to G1, I only wished I had giant sunglasses and a head wrap.  I finally arrived in grand style at the Capitol Police Shooting Range in the basement of the Rayburn Office building, and much to my chagrin, it was packed.  “Suck it up,” I sighed to myself and signed in.

After a safety lesson, I donned some earplugs, eye goggles and ear protective wear and headed in through door 1 and then door 2 of the firing range.  When it was my turn, the safety instructor asked if I had ever fired a gun before and was then shocked by answer given the fact I had grown up in Maine.  Hands trembling, I picked up the 9-millimeter handgun and pointed it at the big white T in the target silhouette.  I fired and missed.  I fired again and missed.  The instructor told me to relax and lighten my grip.  “Let the gun do the work,” he said.  Well Bam Bam, the next shot hit the target dead on.  I started laughing with giddy excitement and tried again.  Bam Bam – I hit the target again.  By this point I was trembling so much, I couldn’t have it again if I tried.

Next station – the rifle!  Now this was fun.  The gun was light and had an automatic laser sight, which made hitting your target much easier.  9 out of my 10 shots went where they were supposed to and I exited the firing range proud as pie for my accomplishment.

I probably won’t be purchasing any camouflage gear anytime soon, but I will say it was extremely fun, and I’d probably do it again.  How’s that for stepping outside your comfort zone!

Heat on the Hill

For the last several weeks, against the backdrop of the debt crisis in Washington, I have woken up every morning with a similar thought:  are we there yet?  Every day, friends have asked, “Is there going to be a deal?  When is this going to end?”  And each time, I have answered, “I really don’t know what is going to happen.”

To say that it has been a long slog since July 4^th weekend would be an understatement.  It’s been nearly 100 degrees most days, tensions on the Hill have been high, tempers have been short, and most importantly, my 2 dogs have been on Holiday at the grandparent’s house in Maine, making it extremely lonely here.

Yesterday afternoon, I called my mom to update her on the latest machinations in Washington on the debt crisis and had her put the dogs on the phone.  Hunter intently listened seemingly believing this was some cruel trick all the while knowing I was really 650 miles away.  Alex began wagging his tail in anticipation I would jump out from behind the couch and yell, “Surprise!”  It was a brief moment of joy from an otherwise never ending oppressive combination of exhaustion and exasperation caused by the heat and debt crisis respectively.

So where are we with just 2 days left to the looking deadline of August 2^nd?  News sources report that the GOP is “very close” to a deal with the President, which causes me to have hope but also great trepidation. 

It is mind boggling to me that multi national corporations and the wealthiest Americans who are where they are because of yes hard work, but also the greatness of America, are not being asked to pay their fair share while some have suggested cuts to Social Security and Medicare.  It is mind numbing to me that we are still in Afghanistan at a cost of roughly $190 million U.S. dollars a day but we have allowed this crisis to get to the point where our men and women in uniform wonder if they will get paid next month and veterans come home with untold costs of PTSD and traumatic brain injury.  And it is wildly frustrating knowing that extending the Bush tax cuts last December added over a trillion dollars to our deficit, thereby at least in part, necessitating the raising of the debt limit in the first place.

You know, I agree that Washington needs to get spending in control, but to suggest that cuts alone will solve this problem is naïve at best.  So here’s what I would do to get us to an affirmative answer to the question of “Are we there yet?”

1. Let the Bush tax cuts expire.  The so called job creators (the wealthiest Americans) didn’t create any jobs since these were first enacted in 2001 and later in 2003 – in fact, they eliminated jobs to protect their massive wealth.  Cost:  roughly $1 trillion.

2. End the wars in Afghanistan and bring the troops home from Iraq.  If the Soviet Union couldn’t create stability in Afghanistan with very different rules of engagements, what makes us think we can?  Cost:  roughly $1 trillion.

3. Require the Department of Health and Human Services to negotiate for drug prices in the $500 billion Medicare drug program; something the Veterans Administration already does on behalf of our veterans.  Cost:  Estimated tens of billions in savings

4. Spending cuts that don’t cut benefits to seniors; Social Security or Medicare – after all they worked their whole lives and it’s their money.  Cost:  $1 trillion

5. Eliminate tax breaks for oil corporations and subsidies for ethanol.  After all, oil companies are experiencing record profits and federal law mandates ethanol in gas so these corn growers are guaranteed a market anyway.  Cost:  Roughly $40 billion

That’s how I believe we could at least begin to tackle this problem.  The last time we had a federal surplus, we achieved it through deficit reduction that raised taxes, ghastly I know, and cut spending.  And if memory serves me correctly, the people who saw their taxes go up, experienced a decade of incredible wealth. 

But anyway – back to reality. There’s two days left.  I hope this gets solved soon, and then I look forward to heading home to Maine – the way life should be.  Hunter and Alex are waiting.

Perspective

Several weeks ago, I received an email notice that the LGBT Congressional Staff Association was trying to form a team to compete in the Stonewall Kickball League.  “What could be more fun than a gay kickball league on Sunday evenings?”  I thought.  So I decided to add my name to the roster, paid my $25 fee and eagerly awaited the start of the season.

At 39 years old, I was determined that I still had the juice to play team sports, and nothing seemed more simple, easy and fun than kickball.  Here’s the best part – our team was to be called Pink Gingham, a name thrown out to all of us by the late President of the LGBT CSA Chris Crowe.

Chris, at a mere 29 years old, was to join us on the kickball team but tragically passed away just as the season was to get underway.  While I wasn’t close friends with Chris, I remember giving him an informational interview several years ago when he was trying to find a job on the Hill.  He was remembered by friends for his kindness, wonderful humor, warm personality and dedication to the fight for equality.  At our second kickball game, we all signed a team t-shirt for Chris which was presented to his family at a remembrance ceremony on the Hill. 

The news of Chris’ untimely death was a shock to all of us, and it served as an all too vivid reminder that our time on this earth can be cut short at a moment’s notice.  Perspective.

Kickball turned out to be an activity that I would look forward to each week.  Most importantly, it was a great opportunity to meet new people, many of whom I have probably seen numerous time but never really knew.  Pink Gingham took the field each week with a strong sense of purpose, but never quite seemed to capture a victory.

Channelling the chief of staff in me, I decided to emulate the feared red team known as “Sit on my Base” which would arrive on the field each Sunday night in high heels sporting air horns and vuvuzuelas.  They were obnoxious to be sure, but they were damn good at kickball, and their antics seemed to provide a hearty dose of team spirit and campy theatre.  I traveled out to Virginia and armed myself with whistles, an air horn of our own, pink string in a can, noisemakers and yup, pink lip stick to be used as war paint under our eyes.

I purchased these materials particularly for our match with none other than the “red team” and much to my chagrin, the game was cancelled because of a wet field.  I don’t need to tell you what happens when throngs of gay kickball players show up for games only to find out they have been cancelled, especially when the field is adjacent to Jrs Bar and Grill.  You remember my friend Jr?

The surprise stash of goodies would have to wait until the next week when we would finally face off against Sit on my Base.  When Sunday arrived, the tension in the air was palpable as Pink Gingham and Sit on my Base prepared for battle.  Thinking they would trounce us, they grew nervous when we remained tied at the bottom of the third inning.  We never did win that game, but we learned a thing or two about team spirit and never giving up.

Fast forward to last weekend – an evening of double headers for most teams to make up for the cancellation from weeks ago.  We tied our first game against Ball Busters and then went on to challenge Rogue Ballers.  To say that this team did not like our whistles would be an understatement, but I loved the fact that our loud charades really got under their skin.

And that’s when it happened.  Sometime in the third inning (the details are a little fuzzy), I went up to kick and after blasting it into the field, I began my sprint to first base.  One stride, two stride and then SNAP!  It felt like someone slammed an aluminum baseball bat into my right calf.  Limping in agony, I made it to first base where I was thankfully replaced with a runner.  Stupidly, I finished the game which ended in our first win of the season.  Pink Gingham Pride at last!

On Monday, I would find out that I had likely torn my calf muscle and on Tuesday, it would be confirmed by an orthopedic doctor.  Painful could not describe how my leg was feeling.  I was placed in a pneumatic boot and told I would need to wear it for at least 3 weeks, likely to be followed by a less intrusive special orthopedic shoe.  Dread came over me – no kickball, no gym, no training sessions, no walking to work.  After spending 2 years losing nearly 50 pounds, this was bad news indeed that prompted anger and depression.

On Wednesday evening after dropping off my prescription at CVS, I was walking along the sidewalk when I heard a young voice say, "Excuse me."  I turned to see a young probably around 8 year old girl riding her bike and quickly moved aside to allow her to pass.  As she did, she said to me with the attitude of Wanda Sykes, "Yuht, cuz you wouldn't want me to break your other leg."  Taking a beat to register this sistuation, I finalled responded, "You're rude."  Once she had gotten just far enough away from me, she turned and gave a nasty face.  Reeling, I looked around for parents to scold this young girl, but of course, none were to be found.  Just when I thought she was gone, she came back by on her little back and in a sicky sweet tiny voice said, "Hola," and disappeared out of sight.  I am not sure I have ever been taunted by an 8 year old!

The next morning, I boarded the train at Dupont Circle and immediately noticed a very buff, good-looking guy at the front of my car.  I could only see him front the waist up and he was wearing a muscle shirt which layed bare his giant biceps and numerous tattoos.   He had short cropped black hair and was the focus of many a lady (and well me) on that train.  Once the train had made one stop, he moved from where he was standing and walked down the aisle to take a seat.  And that’s when I saw.

Everything was physically perfect about this young man, except for the fact that he was missing a leg and instead had a prosthetic.  Admittedly, I tried not to stare, but I was shocked because it was not at all what I expected to see when he moved from out behind the first row of seats on the train.  I was sure he would have powerfully built legs to match his arms.

I am guessing that he was either a current member of our Armed Services or one of our proud veterans.  I wanted to go over to him and thank him for his service, but not knowing if this was in fact the case, I remained silent.

I thought a lot about that young man all day and decided that however frustrating my current debilitated state is, no matter how painful it can be, no matter how long it takes to recover, I still have my leg, and I will live to play another kick ball game, walk another mile, train another time. 

Perspective is exactly what we all need every now and again, and kickball gave me a double dose that I will never forget.

Game Changers

They say the early bird catches the worm, and as such, I got up early Friday morning so I could begin the 10 hour drive to Maine at a reasonable time.  By 7:20 am, I was headed out the door of my DC condo to load up the  Jeep which had been parked the night before in an ever so fortuitous spot right next to my building.

As I headed to the Jeep, I quickly realized that this early bird would in fact catch no worms, but rather a fat ‘ol $100 parking ticket instead.  For what you might ask?  For failure to obtain a proper DC parking permit.  I guess all that parking at the Capitol and taking the metro to work had simply delayed the inevitable.  When I return to DC in ten days, I suppose I shall head to the DMV and “obtain a proper DC parking permit.” 

After this most unfortunate mishap, I finished loading up the Jeep, gave the vegetables in my refrigerator to Rachel (the building character), took the dogs for a walk and departed Q Street at 8 am.  I stopped briefly at CVS to pick up a sugar free Red Bull and then we were on our way – earlier than ever before.  I was sure I could make Portland by dinner time!

When traveling, I like to pass the time by making little references on Facebook when I enter a new state, taking great care to tie them all together in some clever theme.  This time, I would do musical numbers!  And for all of you wondering, most Facebook posting takes place at rest areas and toll booths – I simply push send at the appropriate moment - so please keep the don’t text and drive comments to yourself. 

As we drove through the Harbor Tunnel, I posted Good Morning Baltimore as I envisioned myself riding atop a big green dump truck.  

Heading over the Delaware Memorial Bridge into New Jersey, I posted Jersey Boys and tried to imagine the words to a song from a show I have never seen and don’t really care to, but hey, it’s all I could come up with.  It was then time to think about lunch and that meant only one thing – veer off the Jersey Turnpike at Exit 7A for the only Chick Fil A I have been able to find near one of the exits. 

Now I am well aware that the corporate powers to be at Chick Fil A do not share my social or political viewpoints, but neither do Exxon Mobile or Shell, and I still stop there for gas.  My $7 purchase at Chick Fil A a few times a year will certainly never become a game changer so I put it out of mind each time, throw caution to the wind, and have my 1,000 calorie meal of bliss.  This time – meal deal #2 it was – Chick Fil A Deluxe, waffle fries and a diet coke thrown in for good measure.  I also splurged and asked for two special sauce packets.  After checking in at Chick Fil Aon Facebook, I then braced myself for the deluge of nasty responses from my coterie of liberal friends.  Much to my surprise, I only got one and it took almost 5 hours.  It read, “You realize that Chick Fil A has funded ads against the boss, right?  My response?  “I’ve been waiting all day for some stank comment – I like their chicken – period.”

Chicken cutlet slap anyone?

By 11:40 am, we were back on the road grinding toward New York.  Normally these are quiet rides with time to think and regroup after days of stress at the U.S. House.  But this time, Hunter, like a petulant child, decided that Alex was invading his space in the back seat and howled every time it happened, sometimes incessantly.  At one point, I had finally had it, and yelled out, “For the love of Christ, shut up!”  And to no avail, the howling continued, but at least I felt better expressing my displeasure verbally.

Gliding over the George Washington Bridge, which we reached in a record 4.5 hours, I posted, “Remember me to Herald Square” and swiftly continued my way rather smoothly through Manhattan, the Bronk and other outliers of the “City That Never Sleeps.”   Arriving in Connecticut, we hit the first rest stop to allow the dogs to take a potty, stretch and water break, and I headed inside to McDonalds to get a $1 coffee.  While patiently waiting in line, this nasty woman from Ohio blurted out her order when the cashier asked me, “Hi can I help you?’  I politely but sternly informed her that I had been waiting in line as she then proceeded to complain about the line system to me and anyone else who would listen.  I suggested that perhaps she should go back to Ohio.  Oh and the Facebook posting for Connecticut? Nothing clever, just a shoutout to my Jrs’s buddy Jimmy Lee who hails from Connecticut. 

Back on the road after a second $50 gas fillup, we slogged through the two hour stretch that is Connecticut and finally hit Massachusetts.  I quickly posted, “It was the shot heard round the world, it was the start of the Revolution” from School House Rock.  Props to one of my longest running best friends, Miss Irene, for properly identifying its origin.  An hour later, we hit New Hampshire where again I couldn’t think up a musical selection, so I used the old “Live Free or Die” standby. 

And then, like a beacon in the night, the Piscataqua Bridge, which connects Maine and New Hampshire, appeared on the horizon.  Excitement, intertwined with pure exhaustion, surged through my body.  I crossed the green monstrosity of a bridge, and then I saw it – the game changer according Anya Trundy – the new ever so tiny sign attached to the far larger sign welcoming visitors and returning residents alike to Maine – the Way Life Should Be.  The new sign I would later learn had been attached only a few days before by our new Governor, and it read, “Open for Business.”

“Well thank God” I thought.  The economy has been fixed, all Mainers have health care, tax reform has been implemented, and hunger, poverty and homelessness have been eradicated all because of this new sign!  Businesses by the hoards must have flocked to Maine at Lepage’s urging and literally transformed our state’s economy overnight.  “Phew!”  I didn’t realize that one small sign could do so, so much. 

As I made my way through the streets of the Old Port, my home in Portland, Maine, the sun began to set, and the temperature which had been 68 degrees earlier that day quickly plummeted.  I headed to the fourth floor of 99 Silver Street, my Old Port condo, located in an old shoe factory replete with brick walls and exposed beams.  I opened the door to my hermetically sealed room from the past 6 weeks and nestled high upon my armoire next to the tv was the real game changer for my trip home – Ultimate Reds from my dear roommate Charlie, bookended by an Avitar greeting.  There’s nothing like a blast of anti-oxidants coupled with some fresh Maine air to eliminate weeks of accumulated DC stress.

It’s good to be home!  I'll be spending the week looking for game changers.

Poop!

Meet my two dogs:  Alex, a 13 year old lab/beagle mix, and Hunter, a 2 year old beagle/hound mix. 

I got Alex in a parking lot in Fryeburg, Maine, and he was the only blonde haired dog in the litter, the rest being black.  He does have a little black patch of hair on his back though as a shout out to his brethren.  Alex has been everywhere with me:  back and forth between Maine and DC, on a small plane out to North Haven, multiple campaign offices across Maine and every single piece of furniture I own, as evidenced by the trail of hair he leaves behind.  He’s a very mellow dog and permits me to sleep late in the morning.

I stopped at Wagtime here in DC to pick up treats for Alex one evening.  The owner Lisa asked me what kind of dog I had and after telling her, told me I should come out back and see the rescue dogs that needed a home.  I thought no way as I nervously walked into the back room.  Amongst all the yelping and frenetic activity, there was Hunter lying alone on a dog bed looking sad and lost.  Lisa explained that I could take him home for a night or two and that even if I didn’t decide to adopt him, any night outside of the shelter would do him good.   She also explained that Hunter had been rescued from a kill shelter in Virginia which absolutely made my heart break.

So I returned the following Friday and picked up Hunter for a doggy holiday in my Dupont condo with Alex.  Lisa posted a note on Facebook that Hunter was on a sleepover and said, “Be a good boy Hunter.  It’s up to you now.”  Well Hunter behaved perfectly, and he never went back.  Most importantly, he seemed to understand the first and foremost point of going outside for a walk.  I signed the adoption papers a week later, and it was then that Hunter yelled Gotcha! 

Hunter is polar opposite to Alex.  He sleeps right next to my head at night, and he is nervous and hyper.  He can put a flock of seagulls to shame with his high pitched warning howl.  He is starved for attention which admittedly I can’t always provide, but I seek solace in the fact that his life is far better with me than the shelter or the near fate he almost suffered in Virginia.

Lif e with the two dogs has been good except for the pooping.  Yup – I said it here on the blog – the first dirty word so to speak I have used.  While it is significantly better than when Hunter first yelled Gotcha and proved to be completely clueless to the point of going outside, we still have frequent issues with the concept.

Just this week during a 2 day rain a thon, Hunter refused to go to the bathroom outside, far preferring the comfort of a heated home.  If he was human, you know he would have a fur cover on his toilet just to keep his bum warm on the porcelain in winter.  They do work well I must admit because my grandmother used to have one.  Rather than go outside in the rain, Hunter would just look up at me after Alex had already gone 4 times with an expression of, “Are you kidding me?  I am not squatting out here in the rain.”

I love the looks I get when the dogs do in fact decide to poop outside.  One man recently said to me a minute or so after Alex let one rip on a patch of dirt between the sidewalk and the road, "Excuse me sir, can I ask you a question?"  I thought to myself that my answer didn't really matter seeing he had already asked me a question.  "Yes,"  I said.  "Did you pick up after your dog?" he asked.  I stared at him in disbelief and answered, "Um - of course.  Right here in the little red bag in case you missed it."  I love self righteous community policers.  I wanted to tell him to mind his own business, get back in his little yuppy Volvo and drive back to the suburb, but I refrained.

Then there was the woman last week who twisted her face in disgust as Hunter, for once, actually pooped.  I wanted to tell her, "Get a grip lady.  It's poop.  We all do it and just like my dog, I am sure yours stinks too."  Again, I refrained.

Back to the problem at hand.  I have tried everything from quarantining Hunter to the kitchen to only feeding him at night to longer walks.  Nothing seems to work.  Amazingly, Alex has learned how to push his way through closed doors which paves the way for Hunter to leave behind special treats in off limit areas like my bedroom.  Ugh!

But the problem now is I think that Alex has joined in the bad behavior and is content to let me think it is all Hunter.  Whenever I lecture Hunter, which sounds to him like the teacher in a Charlie Brown film, Alex just sits there all patronizing like Lucy and thinks to himself, “Silly Hunter, when will you learn?” 

I am considering putting different food colorings in their food to catch the guilty culprit.  If the poop is blue, it’s Hunter!  If it’s green, then it's Alex!  But if it’s purple, I am not sure what I will do!

I am really hoping that all of this too shall pass.  It’s frustrating, but in the end, all worth it.  Dogs provide you a sense of responsibility and keep you grounded.  They don’t talk back, and they are always glad you’re around.  I don’t consider myself the best pet owner on the planet, but they do help me to maintain a sense of purpose.

Are we there yet?  Hell no!  But like the signs in the Bible that indicate Armageddon, I am convinced that no poop for a month will be a sign that we’re getting close.