Dog gone

Elvis has left the building.

Our beloved dog Elvis died Saturday of cancer. He'd been a part of our family for nine years, and was just the best damn dog ever. Always polite, always friendly, always happy.

Elvis starred in many of my newspaper columns over the years, and lots of readers felt that they knew him. He'll be missed.

On a happier note, the Food for Thought party last night was a huge success. I was awfully proud of Kelly and our two sons as we soldiered through, wearing our party faces on what had been a rough emotional day. Our thanks to everyone who attended and to all the volunteers whose hard work made it such a great bash.

Getting the dog fixed

We put our dog in the shop and took our van to the veterinarian--

Wait, that's backward. The two events happened the same week and will be forever linked in my mind, but of course it was the other way around. Dog to vet. Van to shop.

Two major "repairs" in one week are enough to throw most households into a tizzy. We're all so busy, we can't afford for one thing to go wrong in our tight schedules.

At our house, the madness progressed this way:

The van developed a dribble, leaving freckles all over the driveway. I'd convinced myself the brakes were acting funny, so it was time for a professional diagnosis.

Our dog, meanwhile, wasn't dribbling any more than usual, but he'd developed a growth on his hip. (That last sentence doesn't read right. Looks like our dog is named Meanwhile, which is not the case. Meanwhile would be a good name for a dog, but ours is named Elvis.)

The growth, a cyst with a very long, medical-sounding name, had been checked by the vet before, but it kept getting bigger. We began to think Elvis was growing a second head so he could see where he'd been. I took him back to the vet, who, when he saw the new, improved cyst, said, "Whoa! That's gotta come off!"

So the van was in the shop. The dog was at the vet's. And I sat by the phone, cringing over how much it all would cost.

The repair shop called. Nothing wrong with the brakes, but the rack-and-pinion unit (which sounds like a medieval torture device, but actually has something to do with the steering) must be replaced. Yipes.

At the vet's office, Elvis went under the knife. After many anxious hours, I got word that the procedure had gone fine, the extra head had been removed and the dog could come home in a couple of days. Whew.

Back at the repair shop, they got the "unit" and put it on my van. Alas, it was the wrong "unit" and wouldn't fit properly. Another "unit" was ordered.

The next day, the shop called again. The correct unit was attached to my van, where it promptly broke. They'd get a new unit right away, though, and I should have my van back in no time.

Elvis came home -- my wife picked him up because, guess what, I still didn't have my van -- and we were shocked at his appearance. His entire left rear quarter-panel had been shaved and he had an eight-inch incision where the cyst used to be. He wore a large plastic lampshade around his head so he couldn't gnaw his numerous stitches.

"Frankendog," as we called him, stumbled around the house, crashing into furniture and raking the flesh off our shinbones with the sharp edges of his lampshade. But he healed up nicely.

The van, meanwhile, finally got its repairs finished and came home. (Hey, maybe I'll name my van "Meanwhile.") It steers just fine and no longer leaves spots on the driveway, though the brakes still feel funny.

Guess which one cost the most. If you guessed the van, you win a big prize, which is a plastic lampshade we don't need anymore.

So all is right at our house until something else breaks or sprouts a cyst. My money's on the van. When the brakes finally go, I'm taking it to the vet.

Dancin' to the doghouse rock

Is any creature more optimistic than a dog?

No matter how often we disappoint our dogs, they maintain a sunny outlook, especially when it comes to us, their humans. They expect us to do our best by them, every time. And, they're quick to forgive and forget -- just because you didn't offer a snack this time doesn't mean you won't the very next time you get up from the sofa.

You could argue that dogs simply have faulty memories, that their jellybean-sized brains don't allow for disappointment. Hope springs eternal when you can't remember five minutes ago. But I prefer to think of it as optimism.

Take our dog Elvis. (Please. Haha!) He's always delighted to go for a ride in the car, though the destination almost always is somewhere he hates. The vet. The kennel.

(Note: Both destinations are in the same building. The drive from our house to the "pet hospital" takes, oh, 40 seconds. We only use a vehicle for this trip because we live on top of a precipitous hill and the pet hospital's at the bottom. Also, we're usually running late for our appointment.)

If you or I had a similar history with automobile rides, you couldn't get us anywhere near the garage. But Elvis happily leaps into the car, sniffing seats and slobbering on the windows, apparently never making the connection that, in 40 seconds or so, he'll get reacquainted with a rectal thermometer.

Even after we arrive at the familiar pet hospital, he's excited, running around, sniffing all the places where other critters have "been." Only when someone unveils a hypodermic needle does he think this trip was a bad idea. And those misgivings only last a few seconds. Because, as soon as the vet's done, I say, "Elvis! Want to go for a ride in the car?"

Hurray! Another ride! Leap, sniff, slobber. Back home in less than a minute.

Whew, what an outing! Such a long car ride! To recuperate, Elvis must now have a snack, then sleep for the next 17 hours.

I'm convinced we could do this same routine, up to and including the shots, every day, for the next 125 years, and Elvis still would get excited to go in the car. Because he's an optimist. This time, his jellybean tells him, could be different! We could go someplace fun! Maybe a field trip to the snack factory! Yay!

The only thing Elvis loves more than a car ride is to go for a walk. It's his chance to go out into the wider world of the neighborhood and sniff all the local "bulletin boards." Always a new and exciting experience.

He knows which sneakers I wear for our walks, so if he sees me put them on, he starts to get excited. And if I put on my sunglasses, hoo-boy, he spins in crazed anticipation. If I then shut him in the backyard and go somewhere without him, he might be momentarily confused, but not truly disappointed. He knows I'll come back eventually. And maybe then we'll go for a walk! Or a ride in the car! Yay!

Wouldn't it be nice if people could so easily forget disappointments? Alas, we humans (with the exception of some members of Congress) do not have brains the size of jellybeans. We remember the bad times as well as the good.

But maybe we could take a lesson from our pets: It's as easy to be optimistic as it is to be negative and cynical. Try it!

If you do, I'll take you for a ride in the car.

Bark, bark everywhere

Our dog's bark is worse than his bite.

The dog, Elvis, has never intentionally bitten anyone, despite the fact that he's equipped with a set of choppers worthy of a crocodile. He rarely raises his voice unless he's provoked by something nefarious like, say, a cat.

When I say "bark," I don't mean bark as in "woof," but bark as in "tree." In particular, I mean shredded tree bark that has become my chief nemesis in life.

In our back yard, shredded bark covers a berm that rises to the base of the tall rear fence. The bark was placed there as a landscaping "statement" by the developers. What they're saying with this statement is this: Nothing much will grow on this steep slope of clay and discarded concrete, so we'll hide it with shredded bark.

Well, that's just fine. Until it rains. Or the wind blows. At times of such unforeseen "acts of God," the bark tends to migrate until the berm is a barren slope surrounded by dunes of relocated bark.

Now factor into this landscaping scheme one large fuzzy dog with full roaming privileges.

You can picture what happens. Elvis goes for a romp and collects dozens of bits of the aforementioned bark on his curly fur. Then he comes indoors and shakes the bark onto the handy light-colored carpet. Where it becomes my problem.

I'm in charge of keeping the floors clean, which has put me in a years-long power struggle with Elvis. Our previous home had a large lawn. There, Elvis saw it as his mission to de-thatch the lawn and bring all the dead grass into the house. I vacuumed up so much dead yellow grass that each time I emptied the vacuum cleaner bag, I netted one entire bale of hay.

At the current house, we don't have the dead grass problem. We have the bark gradually making its way indoors. No matter how clean the house may be, one good shake from Elvis and the place looks like a sawmill.

Muttering vile curses, I vacuum up the bark. Once the bag is full, it goes into the trash. Which means the dog and I are slowly sending all the migrating bark to the dump. This, I'm pretty sure, isn't what the landscapers had in mind.

Here's the killer: Twice in the past year, I've been forced to go to the home improvement store and buy hundreds of pounds of shredded bark to cover up the denuded berm. I've hauled the 50-pound bags up the berm and spread the bark around, getting splinters in my hands and dirt in my shoes. And I've done this with the full knowledge that Elvis will come right behind me and move all that bark right into the house.

Sure, it's insane, but I can find no other solution. Replacing the bark with gravel would be expensive and ugly. A naked berm would look even worse. Keeping Elvis cooped up so he can't reach the bark seems cruel. (Cutting his fur extra-short doesn't work; we've tried it.) And the dog's not going anywhere; he's a more integral part of the family than I am.

So I'll just keep cycling the bark through, with the full recognition that our property is a mere way-station on the journey from store to landfill. I can always pretend it's my hobby.

I'm funny that way. And when I say "funny," I don't mean funny as in "haha," I mean funny as in "barking crazy."

Cubicle curs

By now, you've no doubt heard about the expensive new mixed-breed dogs that are taking the world by storm.

People are paying top dollar for the Labradoodle (Labrador/poodle cross), the schnoodle (schnauzer/poodle mix), the dorgi (dachshund/corgi) and the cockapoo (cocker spaniel/poodle).
Buyers are attracted to such mixes because they have the best properties of the original breeds, such as the poodle's allergy-friendly curly fur, and because mixed-breeds tend to be healthier.

I'm a big fan of mutts. Our family dog, Elvis, is a sheepdog/deerhound mix. (What would the clever breeders call that? Sheephound? Sheepdeerdoodle?) He's the best dog ever. Long-legged, smart, shaggy, friendly. Looks kind of like a giant schnoodle.

We got Elvis at an animal shelter, rather than pay a breeder thousands of dollars. Which just raises his worth, in my estimation.

Since I work at home, Elvis is my co-worker. He spends all day sleeping in my home office, staying handy in case of an emergency, such as spilled food. He never disturbs me, never tries to horn in on my successes and will gladly take the blame for my failures, especially if I spill some food while I'm ranting. He's the perfect colleague.

The trend of "hot" mixed-breed dogs got me to thinking: Maybe it would be possible to classify co-workers the same way, focusing on the best or worst of particular types. Here are some possibilities:

--Overdoodles. These are great co-workers because they gladly shoulder the load, producing twice as much as their colleagues. Unfortunately, this breed tends to be short-lived.

--Snickerdoodles. Co-workers with funny laughs. Once they get started, they can't stop. Such laughter is contagious, and can boost morale.

--Hairdoodles. These workers spend most of the day tending their elaborate hairdos, while others do the actual work. Recognizable by their curly fur, and by mirrors placed strategically near their desks. Closely related to two other mixes, Manicurgis and Shampoos.

--Doodledoodles. Workers who pour all their energies into idly drawing in the margins of important reports and business plans.

--Coldbricks. These cross-breeds waste all day complaining that the office thermostat is set wrong. Prone to wearing sweaters.

--Schnoozers. Workers who frequently fall asleep at their desks. Also known as Napoodles.

--Perdiemdoodles. These colleagues are the masters of the expense account. Usually found "out to lunch" or away on pricey business trips to, say, Hawaii.

--Garfieldoodles. Co-workers who decorate their desks with cartoons and other "cute" items. This breed tends to be friendly, if rarely effective.

--Borgis. This long-winded breed puts fellow workers to sleep with epic recountings of summer vacations and after-work shenanigans.

--Canoodles. Office-romance types. Look for them in the supply room where they often, er, breed.

--Dorschtop. Rarely does anything beyond taking up space. They're so inert, you might not even know they're present unless you stub your toe on one.

--Nerdoodles. High-tech types who have trouble relating to other breeds. They're born with pocket protectors, which explains their alternative name, Kangaroodles.

--Schmokers. Hard to find because they're usually outside somewhere, puffing away. Another short-lived breed.

--Boohoodles. Temperamental types, prone to bursting into tears when they don't get their way. Can often be traced by the trail of Kleenex they leave behind.

--Poopoos. A crass, unruly breed that often distracts colleagues with "bathroom humor." To be avoided.

--Snapoos. Ill-tempered breed recognized by incessant barking and occasional backbiting. Quick to rage and difficult to please, Snapoos often are found in management positions.

--Whatchadoodles. An inquisitive breed known to waste the workday asking colleagues what they're up to.

--Noodledoodles. Dreamy types who spend hours "noodling" ideas that never amount to anything. Also known as "columnists."

Mellow out, dog

For those of us who work alone, our pets serve as our co-workers, our confidants, our sounding boards. But it's a relationship that's often rife with misunderstanding and envy.

Spend much time around a dog, for example, and you might start coveting his lifestyle of ease and simple pleasures. Or, at least, his round-the-clock nap schedule.

But how do our pets see us? When I'm in my home office, with my dog Elvis lazing nearby, is he watching me work? Trying to understand what I'm doing sitting still all day, trapped indoors when it's beautiful outside?

What do our pets think when they see us yakking on the phone for hours? Doesn't a telephone receiver look a lot like a chew toy? Does your pet think you're intently talking to your toy all day? Is he waiting for you to set down the phone so he can take a turn chewing on it?

The psychology of home-office pets has been much on my mind lately because I've enjoyed more "quality time" than usual with Elvis. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I drove halfway across the country with Elvis in the back seat. If you haven't spent three days on the road with a 70-pound dog with halitosis, then, friends, you simply haven't lived.

There was much concern at our house in the days leading up to the trip. Elvis, we realized, almost never travels by car. He only takes a ride when he's going to the groomer or the veterinarian. Fortunately, dogs have short memories. Elvis always is happy to get in the car, even though he hates the usual destinations.

But now we were talking about him spending three days in the car, traveling through unfamiliar territory with its strange sights and foreign smells. How would he react? Would he think we were on our way to the vet? And, as the hours roll past, would he start worrying that such a long vet trip was a signal that he was seriously ill? If it's a ten-minute drive to get a rabies shot, then three days on the road must mean surgery at least, right? The last time he had surgery was when he was neutered. And that's enough to worry anybody.

To prepare Elvis for the trip, I took him on a few short rides around town. More importantly, I consulted with our vet, who had the perfect solution: Drug the dog.

Seems there are doggie sedatives that make car trips one long snooze for a pooch. Give three little pills to Elvis, the vet said, and he'd sleep all day, so groggy he could barely get out of the car at rest stops.

It didn't exactly work that way. Elvis, it turns out, can handle his drugs like an old hippie. The pills made him very relaxed, but not too sleepy. He spent the trip with his head resting in the back window, watching the landscape whiz past. An extremely mellow dog and an absolute pleasure to travel with, if you discount the halitosis problem.

By the end of the trip, I envied Elvis like never before. After three days, I was a jangled, road-weary human with aching muscles, a bad attitude and no appetite. Elvis, on the other hand, was a well-rested, happy dog, though he did seem to suffer from the "munchies."

The sedatives had one negative side effect: Elvis really liked them. Now, he wants to ride in the car all the damned time. Every time he hears the garage door roll up, he starts jonesing for doggie dope. Dude, let's go for a ride.

I drove him to the groomer the other day, and he seemed truly disappointed when our drug-free journey ended after only five minutes. Then he got a bath and a haircut without the benefit of sedatives. Bummer.

We'll get through this rehab period. Elvis eventually will forget those three glorious days of purple haze. And I'll find some way to make him that happy again.

Maybe I'll let him chew up the phone.

Traveling shoes

Postings to the blog will slow over the next few days while I attend Left Coast Crime Conference in Denver. Left Coast is my favorite mystery conference -- just the right size, fairly close to home and attended by all my favorite people. Hope to see some of you there!

My wife and I travel separately a lot, taking turns staying home with the teen-agers. My petite wife never worries about burglars while I'm gone. Why? Look here.

Dog droppings

Elvis is everywhere.

At our house, Elvis is the family hound dog. This time of year, when he's indoors much of the time, cooped up with the rest of us, his impact on the household becomes extreme. Traces of
Elvis litter every room.

This is because Elvis is wearing his "winter coat." Elvis is a long-legged, bobtailed mutt whose natural coat is a tangled, wiry, black-and-gray mess. Picture the hair of boxing impresario Don King. You get the idea.

Because of its natural tendency toward natty dreadlocks, we have the coat trimmed by a local groomer every few months. She clips him short all over, except around his face, which is left in a boxy beard. When he's freshly groomed, Elvis doesn't look like Bob Marley anymore. He looks like me.

In the winter, we let his coat grow a little longer because it's cold outside. Not that the dog is outside much. He spends, oh, 23 hours a day indoors, lying on the rug, sleeping.

But every couple of hours, he needs to go outside to attend to business and to make sure the neighborhood birds aren't scarfing his dog food.

He's not out long because it's winter and the cold might keep him awake. But during these brief expeditions, he manages to get covered in leaves and dead grass and other items that cling to the Amazing Velcro Dog. I open the door, he runs into the house, finds a nice clean spot somewhere and, shake-shake-shake, rids his coat of its detritus.

One day recently, I finished vacuuming the house. Elvis was outside, choosing the cold over the roar of the vacuum cleaner. As soon as the noise ended, he wanted back inside. I let him in, then gasped when I saw he was covered in brittle bits of yellow grass from the lawn.

Shake-shake-shake. My floor was no longer clean. Instead, it looked like somebody had dropped a bale of hay.

I started to scold the dog, but it was too late. He was already asleep again. Grumbling, I went off to get the vacuum cleaner.

The winter coat also produces more shedding, somehow. You'd think the dog would want to hold onto all his fur in the winter. But Elvis' coat works overtime, producing piles of spilled hairs.
These hairs migrate around the house, uniting with their kinsmen into gray dust bunnies that gradually grow larger, picking up dead grass and Christmas tinsel as they travel from room to room. By the time I find them hiding behind the drapes, they're the size of tumbleweeds.

I can vacuum with a vengeance, around and under all the furniture and behind the drapes and even (oh, my God!) under the kids' beds, and the moment I put away the vacuum cleaner and wipe the sweat from my brow, a half-dozen dust bunnies will dance out to the center of the room. Mocking me.

Did I mention we have beige carpet? Or, at least, as I recall, it once was beige. In the winter, it's more often a mottled brown, decorated with fallen leaves and muddy paw prints and a thatch of gray fur. I tell guests we're going for a "more natural look," one I call "Forest Floor."

At least I can stop raking leaves in the back yard. Elvis eventually will bring them all into the house, and I'll vacuum them up. It's a slow means of leaf disposal, but, heck, we've got all winter.

Elvis is worth the trouble, of course. For all the cleaning up after him we have to do (and all the money we spend on groomers and vet visits and dog/bird food), we get a family friend, one who's loyal and trustworthy and well-loved. Any time of the day or night, if we feel lonely or depressed, we can watch him sleep.

Dog days

You always hear people say their pet is "one of the family." At our house, the question is which one?

We have three boys at our house. The biggest one -- around 70 pounds now -- is a year-old puppy.

All three have more or less human names. The dog's name is Elvis.

How come, when I go to shout for a boy, I call the dog's name? I've even caught myself calling Elvis by the boy's names occasionally. Am I slipping?

I think it's because the three of them act about the same -- rambunctious, loud, needy and prone to spurts of intense energy. And they're all roughly the same size, though Elvis has a lot more hair. When I address them, my tone of voice is often the same -- a weary, scolding, I-caught-you-and-I-can't-believe-you-did-that baritone. It's the principal's voice. It works on dogs. Not so well on boys.

Now that he's been around a while, the boys can't remember Life Without Elvis. I remember, and they're fond memories. I remember a day when I never worried about someone eating my sprinkler heads. I remember being able to walk around barefoot. I remember when dust bunnies weren't fed by dog hair until they were the size of tumbleweeds.

But I admit Elvis has become part of the family, just as everyone predicted. And I spoil him as bad as the others do. Because I work at home, I spend more time with him than with anyone else. No wonder his name is the first to come to my lips.

I'm also responsible for much of the day-to-day training for him and the boys. Sometimes it feels as if I'm talking, talking, talking all the time, trying to teach the three of them, trying to make them understand how the world works, trying to get them to stop spilling everywhere.

The instruction of Elvis is going well. A lot of the hardships -- disappearing sprinkler heads, for instance -- was puppy misbehavior. Elvis is outgrowing them now, just in time to save himself from finding "a good home." He's gotten smarter as he's aged, something you can't always say for humans.

He's learned all the basic tricks (except "roll over," which makes him laugh) and shows an amazing grasp of English. Ask him what he wants, and he'll make you follow him to the back door or to an empty water dish. Give him a complex command -- "Go get your bone and bring it in the house" -- and he'll figure it out. It's like having Lassie around. I spend a lot of time saying, "What is it? What is it, boy?" I fully expect him to inform me that little Timmy has fallen down the well.

My wife has even taught him to do a chore. It was about time he started pulling his weight around here. He can't spend all his time sleeping, sniffing and licking, can he?

She taught him to fetch the newspaper from the yard. Now this was a bold concept because it involved the potential freedom of the unfenced front yard. There was a good chance Elvis would zoom out the door and never come back, too busy sniffing other dogs and licking joggers. But within a couple of days, she had him fetching like a champ.

My wife usually handles Elvis' wake-up call because she's the first one out of bed. My own experiences in the milky dawn have been mixed. The first time I tried it, the fat Sunday paper was in one of those slippery condoms to keep it dry. Elvis grabbed the plastic bag in his teeth and sprinted back to the front door. Unfortunately, he had the bag by the wrong end. Inserts and travel sections and Parade magazine were strewn behind him all the way across the yard.

The other day, I sent him on his mission again. The newspaper wasn't immediately visible (a car was in the way), so Elvis dashed across the street and brought me the neighbor's paper.

Inventive, but larceny nonetheless. I had to tiptoe across the street in my pajamas and put it back.

Just the kind of thing I'd expect my boys to do, if I'd ever taught them to fetch.

(Editor's note: This column first appeared in 2000. Elvis is now eight years old, and still just the best dog ever. My sons are bigger than him now, and their hair is longer. They still don't fetch worth a damn.)

Where the toys are

I have chattering teeth on my desk.

Not just your standard plastic chattering teeth. These have big, pink bare feet attached. The whole thing hops around while the teeth chatter. Worth a smile the first 30 times you see it.
After that, you try to ignore the little gizmo, which sends you telepathic signals all day: "Wind me up. C'mon, it'll be fun."

Where did this laugh riot come from? I have no idea. I assume one of my sons set the teeth here, then forgot them.

Desks collect toys and gimcracks and gewgaws and freebie calendars, whether they're sitting with their mates in some big office or all alone at home. Such is their nature. If zoologists traced it back far enough, I'm sure they'd find an evolutionary branch where four-legged desks split from the same primitive species that spawned the packrat.

In large offices, workers decorate their desks to liven up their personal spaces and to show off their toys or photographs of their families. You can tell a lot about people by the artwork and cartoons and accessories they keep on their desks

For instance, a person who uses a ballpoint with a large pink plume attached tends to be the fun-loving sort. A man whose desk is covered with photos of dogs, but no people, might seem shy at first, but he'll be loyal and friendly and will respond well to praise. A bowling trophy may indicate a heightened appreciation for healthy activity and beer.

Desk decoration can also be a warning flag. I've never gotten a satisfactory answer from a secretary who had Garfield prominently displayed. Never enter into a conversation with a man who keeps on his desk a photo of his boat.

Some items are silent protests against the powers that be. Is there any cubicle in America that doesn't sport a "Dilbert" cartoon? Once, when I didn't like my supervisor, I placed a portrait of the Marx Brothers on my desk as mute comment on the way we were being managed. In the photo, the brothers were choking each other.

I worked with an unhappy woman who kept a plastic lamp on her desk. The lamp was shaped like a mushroom cloud and had a red bulb inside. When her superiors walked past, she'd flick on the light and say under her breath: "Boom. Heh-heh-heh." We were all secretly glad when she moved away.

In a home office, a desk is like a big stationary goathead. Everything that travels past sticks to it.

In the past week or two, along with the chattering teeth and the usual mail, I've found the following on my desk: a round plastic rock, a stuffed Roswell alien (twice), several Transformer beasts in various stages of mutation and undress, six shoes, two yo-yos, four Super Balls, a chocolate heart left over from Valentine's Day (how did I miss that?), seven Hot Wheels cars, a toy dump truck, two Koosh balls (don't ask), a dead flower, nine coffee cups, a dozen action figures, three Beanie Babies and 37 dirty socks.

I didn't want any of these things on my desk. I prefer a clean, organized work space. But detritus moves through, and the desk picks it up.

The problem is worse at our house these days because of our shaggy dog, Elvis. He's learned to pick up toys and other items around the house and chew them. He's trained us to take the item away, praise him for handing it over and then put the item on a horizontal surface out of his reach, such as my desk. Then Elvis goes to get another item and we do it all over again. As the numbers show, he's particularly keen on dirty socks.

I think Elvis sees it as his way of cleaning the house. He finds stuff on the floor, brings it to me and I eventually put it away. He's just trying to help. And I'll keep doing my part, cleaning off the desk for the next inevitable accumulation. But I'm keeping the chattering teeth.

Big house blues

I remember, as a boy, hearing my mother's friends dish about an acquaintance's new, much bigger home. "It's a nice place," they said, "but I wouldn't want to clean it."

I now know what they meant. We moved to a bigger place a few months ago, and it's doubled my workload. Plus, I had to learn how to clean a house all over again.

All the routines change. Everything is in a new place. You spend so much time looking for, say, the mop that by the time you find it, you've forgotten where you spilled.

Some things are learned quickly. When is trash day? Where did we put the scissors? What's that noise?

Others take longer. It takes a few weeks to master the light switches, for example. How come, in a new place, all the light switches seem to be on the wrong walls? More than once, I've trekked to that one light that was left on at night, only to pitch myself into darkness. Then I'm stuck, trying to remember how to illuminate a path back to my bed. I end up fumbling for the light I just extinguished, then turning on seven more to backtrack. The electricity bill would be lower if I'd just left that one burning.

Learning to clean a house is the slowest lesson of all. The day is filled with inefficiencies. I carry clean laundry to the far end of the house and put it in a bedroom, only to return to the laundry room and find something else that belongs in that bedroom. I can walk miles every day without going outdoors.

I tend to wander when I clean anyway. I'll be working in the kitchen and see a toy that's been left on the counter and I'll take the toy to a kid's room and then notice the kid's room needs picking up and I'll do that until I run out of coffee. Then I'm back in the kitchen and I resume the dishes until something else distracts me and I'm off again.

This method results in most rooms in the house being almost-clean at any one time. Almost-clean's not so bad, actually. If the doorbell rings, a quick slamming of doors to shut off the worst of it can make a house look as tidy as Martha Stewart's.

The doorbell rings a lot after you move into a new place. All your friends and relatives want to come by and see it. Of course, they want to see behind all the closed doors, too. More than once, I've warned a visitor approaching my son's closet: "Don't open that! Avalanche!"

Everyone who visits knows I'm responsible for the housework in our family, so I'm embarrassed if they find damp towels on the floor or dust bunnies in the foyer. I walk ahead of my visitors, subtly kicking things under furniture.

No matter how much I vacuum, the floors always are covered with bits of dead yellow grass. Our fuzzy dog rolls around in the yard, then carries a bale of hay into the house. A quick shake and a roll on the carpet and the dead grass is deposited right where he wants it. I've never seen an animal with a coat so perfectly designed for things to stick in it. We should've named him Velcro.

I'm learning to ignore the thatched floor, but keep everything else more-or-less clean. I now plan my journeys from one end of the house to the other. And we've found new tools to help. We got a big square bucket for carrying all the cleaning products and implements from room to room and two laundry baskets for ferrying clothes back and forth to the washer.

I've discovered a new appreciation for labor-saving devices that had been shunned in the past. I now love the vacuum cleaner, for instance, and the sweet geometry of rearranging the dishwasher load to squeeze in that one last bowl.

The light switches still stymie me occasionally, but I've learned to find my way in the dark.

(Editor's note: This column originally appeared in 1999. We're in a smaller, almost-clean house now.)

A shaggy dog story

It can be a lonely workday for those of us who labor at home, but here's the answer: a dog.

(OK, don't all you cat lovers write in to complain. I'm sure cats are wonderful, too, but I'm allergic to them. I'll take your word for it. No catty letters.)

I recently returned to the world of canine companionship after a 10-year hiatus. Our last pet had been a mutant Airedale named Scotch, who still thought he was a fidgety lap dog when he reached 85 pounds. Scotch nearly caused me to swear off pets forever. He ruined the yard. He left tooth marks in the doorknob, trying to get inside. He barked all day while my wife and I were at work, prompting the neighbors to leave anonymous threatening notes. I realize now that he was lonely and neurotic and way too excitable. We found him a nice home before our first son was born.

While that was a terrible experience in pet-owning, it was, I learned later, pretty good training for parenthood.

I wasn't in any hurry to try another dog, but my wife and kids wore me down. My best ammunition -- a dog would be lonely and loud if left alone all day -- became a dud once I started working at home.

A couple of months ago, we adopted a puppy. Actually, at $75, it was more like ransom. He's a shaggy mutt named Elvis. My sons say "he ain't nothin' but a hound dog," but I believe he is part Clydesdale. He nearly doubled in size the first month we had him. He's only six months old, but we're already sizing him for a saddle. We can tell the boys we got them a pony.

So far, Elvis is rowdy with the kids, apparently thinking they're puppies, too, which isn't so far from the truth. But he thinks I'm the Alpha Male, in charge of things around here (ha, ha!), and his job is to follow me around the house.

When I go to the kitchen for coffee, he comes along, watching carefully, as if he's trying to learn to brew French Roast. (Which wouldn't be a bad trick to teach him, come to think of it.) When I'm working at my desk, he sleeps. He's delighted to go outside and play by himself.

He is, in fact, the perfect co-worker.

He doesn't talk back. He doesn't complain. He does exactly what is requested of him (sure, that's essentially nothing, but he's good at it). He never tries to sell me band candy.

He doesn't goldbrick and then hog all the credit. Indeed, a dog can even provide a good excuse for your own lolly-gagging. This has been true since the days of "the dog ate my homework," though it pays to be more sophisticated than that now. Your grandmother can pass away only so many times, but your dog can have repeated miraculous recoveries.

A dog makes sure you don't sit too long at your desk. You have to let him outside and later you have to let him back inside. He'll let you know when. One way or the other. Get too wrapped up in your work and the carpet suffers.

There are other disadvantages. Elvis sheds hairballs, something you don't see much with human co-workers. And humans don't usually snore and drool while you work. Well, some do. But they don't usually chase rabbits while they're sleeping. That can be distracting.

Because Elvis follows me wherever I go, I have a good excuse when walking around the house, talking to myself. See, I'm not really talking to myself like a lunatic, I'm talking to the DOG. Maybe he doesn't answer, but it helps to have someone to bounce ideas off. I find myself muttering, "Elvis, where did I leave that invoice?" And then, "Ah, here it is!" He shares my delight, naturally, though he may just be scamming for another Milk-Bone.

But the No. 1 reason a dog is best is this: You can rarely get your human co-workers to lie on your feet and keep them warm.