Country

I was never meant to live in the country. When I grew up, I dreamt of city lights and bustling passerbys. The only passerbys I witnessed in the country were either cows or deer. This just didn't do it for me.

I think I knew I would move to a city when I was ten. My mom used to ask me where I wanted to live when I got older and I would describe a penthouse on Michigan Avenue.

Obviously, I was a savvy kid. I knew what I wanted and it was not being 2 miles away from any type of civilization.

For a good 15 years though, I think my parents were in denial. They thought as I matured and the years passed, I would eventually end up back in Wisconsin...my heart yearning for the serenity and goodness that the state provides.

Instead, I ended up becoming more immersed in the city vision. Maybe it's the whole Sex and the City persona you adopt in college when watching entirely way too many episodes and dreaming about independence. Whatever it was, I knew I was destined for urban life.

In my dream city now, I take solace in the chaos. I would hands down rather be lulled by the sound of speeding cars than pestering, chirping birds. In fact, when I go back to Wisconsin I bring ear plugs specifically for the purpose of drowning out this doldrum.

I really wonder, though, if a city is the best environment you can raise your dog in. I always notice that my dog seems a million times happier when he is in Wisconsin. He is at home with the 500 species that live right outside his front door and takes comfort in being able to kick up actual grass rather than stones.

Have you ever thought that maybe your dog is talking to other animals outside? I've seen those You Tube episodes where dogs become best friends with birds or even stranger, 500 pound bears. Maybe it's because they all have some universal carnal language. Whatever the case, they bond and seem entirely way too happy to be coexisting together.

When my parent's dog comes to the city, he goes into shock. I am always tempted to go knock on my neighbors door and tell them not to judge me. It is guaranteed that he will bark at everyone he trots by, will lunge as he gets out of the elevator, ready to take on the thin air, and howl as he walks outside - a warning signal to anything non-animal approaching.

He is never happy about coming to the city. The various things I love like the gated in parks and people filling the streets, do not amuse or liken him to Chicago. After the first hour here, he usually goes into fits of anxiety and exhausts himself.

So was Milo right? Was it unnatural to have dogs in the city? I guess it may not be the best place where a dog reflects on his primitive nature, but it is certainly filled with a million dog lovers. You can shop with your dog, eat with your dog, go to do playgrounds and bring your dog to work. In my world, this seems like some pretty cool doggy opportunities. So maybe it's wise to let your dog have the best of both worlds. He now can hang out in his city apartment or travel to his country home. Not too bad of a life for a dog.

What to choose

Each morning when I wake up I decide what to pack for lunch. Should I have an everything bagel with veggie cream cheese? Or what about a delicious Genoa salami sandwich? If I don't prepare myself for this choice, I usually stand in front of my refridgerator for a good 20 minutes staring aimlessly. Then I finally make my decision - painfully. Salami sandwich it is.

But for the rest of the day I am dreaming of a veggie bagel, ugh.

I am deluged by options. I wish that someone could reach inside my brain, analyze all choices and relegate for me. The craziest part is that people seem content with a million stimuli and options.

I once asked a waiter for my hamburger to be done "medium OK" because I couldn't make a decision between it being done medium or medium well. Without even looking up from his pad, he smiled and sad he would put the order right in. No strange looks or questions. I think people are now hardwired to think that this is normal.

This past weekend, my boyfriend's mom told me that whenever he comes home, it's never just them hanging out. It's mom, Mark and his Apple. Why just pain yourself paying attention to your mother when you can pay attention to your mom, surf sports on your BlackBerry and read the news on your computer, all at once!

I'm not saying I don't this, because I most certainly do. But I sometimes wish I lived in the dog world where things were much simpler.

Wake up and your choice for breakfast is????? Dog food. The same dog food you've eaten for the past 7 years of your life.

What to drink? H2O. What to do all day? Sleep and smell.

I love getting psyched up to take my dog on field trips. I think it is part of my job as a pet owner to provide him with weekly adventures. Our most recent excursion was chuck-it in the park, then a walk to the nursery and then to Wiggley Field. After all this excitement, I was expecting him to come home and jump on my lap in praise.

Not so much. Instead of cloaking me in thanks, he went to the bathroom to lay down on the cold tile.

Trying not to be offended, I realized that all of these doggy pleasures don't mean much to him. He's content being home relaxing with his favorite person - muah.

Recently, I've been trying to conduct weekly experiments. I come home, try not to sprint to my tv or Ipod, or run to grab my laptop. Instead I make a cup of tea, meditate and look around my house thinking of new decorating ideas. I try to take one task at a time, not being bogged down by too many options or forms of technology to distract me.

But one thing I will still continue to take pleasure in is watching Animal Planet while petting my dog and dreaming about a new puppy. Why have one dog, when there are a million more out there to meet!

The Man, The Myth, The Legend

Once upon a time there lived a dog named Harley. Harley resided at a lovely cobblestone home on a wooded court. To the outsider, Harley resembled a show dog. His features were perfectly appointed and his coat was always milky white and soft. But to the insider, we knew better.

Harley had more lives than I can count on one hand. I have witnessed him jump out of the window in a car exceeding 50 miles per hour, eat freshly fertilized grass and burn off all his paws on a freshly tarred road. Yet, like a keen, embattled soldier, this dog survived. Not only did he survive, he flourished. He lived each day like it was his last and set out each morning on a new destructive mission.

My family got Harley when I was 10 years old. We picked him up at the Wisconsin state line where he was curled up in his bed in an angelic ball. Carefully transporting him into our car, Harley greeted my sister by peeing on her 20 minutes into the ride back home. I guess this was his warning sign to us. This was only the beginning...first my sister's pants and then the whole house. Pure annihilation.

When my parents were researching what dog to get, they thought the Bichon seemed like a reasonable choice. Hypo-allergenic, fluffy, small and sweet.

Either they switched Harley at birth or he was abducted by aliens at some point, because this was not the dog that fit the aforementioned description.

Harley spent 17 joyous years giving my poor father absolute hell. First his dog, then his daughters. My dad just couldn't win.

Everyday a different neighbor would call and tell us that they either found Harley cleaning out their grease pan or dumpster diving in their garage. Harley would go house to house like a traveling garbage collector, taking in his favorite pork and beans and bacon at his leisure.

Harley had even traveled miles when he smelled a giant barbecue going on in a neighboring subdivision. This is not a joke...this dog could literally sniff out a grill in the next county.

Many of my friends have been witness to Harley's antics. When my good friend Patty came to visit me, Harley was in a full body cast from his paw-burning, raw food eating, spastic car jumping episodes. On top of that, the only visible part on him was his eyes which were completely swelled shut from allergies.

The natural response would be to pity him. But to know him is definitely not to pity him. He loved his life. He lived on the edge. I grew up loving and idolizing him despite his craziness.

This "Harley experience" has made me a much wiser dog lover. People go into shelters or others homes expecting dogs to behave much like their model citizen owners. But the truth is that no dog is perfect. In fact, most are as far from perfection as you can get. Sometimes it does have to do with their upbringing or training, but for the most part dogs are just quirky. Some have anxiety, some are mischevious and others are paranoid. And if you're really lucky, they're all three combined.

My family and I laugh now thinking of Harley and revisit stories that never cease to amaze us. Although my dad smiles when he talks about chasing Harley done Golf Hills Drive, I can still remember the grimace and teeth clenching that went on that day and many others. But when he left this world, I can't remember a day my parents were any sadder.

So if your dog is driving you insane, take solace in the fact that you probably couldn't have had a more trying dog than Harley. Laugh at their craziness and appreciate every moment with them because even 17 years wasn't enough.

Prevention

If you look in my medicine cabinet, you will find the following: Epicuren anti-oxidant serum, Epicuren moisturizing/age reversal lotion, Fructis eye wrinkle prevention, Prevage anti-aging serum.

OK, so there may be a slight obsession with aging. Yes, from a physical perspective I would rather not look like a leather handbag when I get older. My college friends used to tease me that I would turn out like Magda from Something About Mary. That is enough to scare a girl into spending half her salary on anti-aging serums.

Each time I visit my parents at home, I notice a new line on their faces. Did that line come from their frequent facial gestures? A chronic angst? Habit? Or by enduring 28 years with me?

Whatever the cause, I wanted to take my hand and smooth them away. I wished my fingertips were laced with a miracle potion that could transform them back into the vision I had of them when I was 2. Their skin looked dewy and luminous, still waiting to battle life's stresses.

My mother's skin always smelled fresh and her hands always silky. Now they are more weathered and dry. Her face still beautiful, but slowly being sapped from age.

But my obsession with getting old isn't really just about getting wrinkles. Being elderly scares me.

I do not want my parents to need my help with life's basic functions. Something about this seems demoralizing and humiliating. Parents are fixtures of strength.

In reality, I have only one necessity in life and that is my parents. Not having them is incomprehensible. Evidently, I am not one of those people that can approach aging with keen wisdom and calm reassurance. I panic.

So, when I realized it was my dog's 8th birthday coming up instead of celebrating it with doggy ice cream and treats, I chose to ignore it.

It seems that a dog is a puppy and then the next blinking moment, he is rocketed to old age. This is not fair. Not fair to him and not fair to me.

But I had to make a choice. I could look at him and analyze his graying hair or sagging stomach or continue to see him from puppy eyes.

I guess the innocence associated with children and puppies is the best way to approach life. You appreciate your parents, your elders, your dogs regardless of age. You aren't reminded that with each passing day we get older.

So although my bevy of anti-aging lotions may not help me reverse time, I think I'm becoming OK with time passing. And for now, I think I may just bring home some snausages home for my buddy's 8th birthday.