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I decided to set up our own romantic evening.

I opened the sparkling wine, I lit the candles, and I drew a scented bubble bath. Ah, this would be heaven, romantic, intimate, all those words of copy I read while sitting under the dryer at the hairdressers.

We both slide into the tub, on cue, the bubbles foamed and popped. The wine sparkled, the candles glowed. We gazed into each other’s eyes. I’m pretty sure they were his eyes; I’m pretty near sighted.

We sipped from the wine flutes and said, look, here we are in a bath tub drinking sparkling wine by candle light – we could hear the bubbles hitting against the glass, which was cool – the rain outside enhanced the coziness of the scene.

After ten minutes my husband shifted, splashing foamy water over the edge of the tub and extinguishing four of the five candles.  The champagne bucket over turned into the bath and we spilled a flute full of wine.

Who knew the romance of this scene was meant to last only as long as it took to capture the photograph?  Six, seven minutes, tops.

This is probably why people start playing with candle wax and end up setting the bath towels on fire.

So  yesterday when he jumped on the chair, clawed at me wanting attention, barked for attention, jumped for attention.
I gave him attention.

Full attention.  Eye ball to eye ball attention.  I cupped my hands around his head and hugged him tightly. I held him to my chest and crooned, Oh, you are such a puppy, let me look deeply into your eyes and ask you how you feel?  Right now, tell me, tell me.
How do you feel?

It wasn’t too long ago I used this same technique to encourage my oldest son to do his homework.  You can finish your math, I’d promise him, or you can tell me how you feel.

I know that my youngest son much prefers to talk while sitting in a car traveling forward at 60 miles per hour. Don’t look at me while I’m talking, was his mantra.
So I knew what would bug the dog the most.
And I was right.

After not telling me how he felt, Zeus couldn’t  get away from me fast enough and head to the refuge of his chew toys.
I’ll tell you how I felt.  I felt better.

Tomorrow I will hug Zeus in public and ask him about his future plans.

As soon as I sit down to eat, the dog either jumps on me for attention, which means I need to respond calmly and model the behavior that I want, which means: Stop eating, stand up to tower over the dog, show him his toy and then sit down to take two more bites of my own food before he displays the undesirable behavior again.
Or, the dog takes the toy and trots off. Ah, I have won the battle.  but he has larger scale strategy to win the war.  a quiet stealthy sound reaches my momentarily relaxed ears.

I must get up from the table, leave the cooling food and investigate.
Ah, the dog has decided to take his fill of fine literature.  I extract the book as calmly as a bibliophile can and again present the acceptable toy to the damn dog.

By then the dinner is cold and I believe I’m finished.

So the dog climbs up onto my lap.  Not an easy task for  43 pound puppy. He can’t really fit on my lap, he slides around scrapping my thighs as he works to get a purchase then he rests for a second or so,   turns to the computer screen, looks, and smacks his front paws on the key board.

The result is not literary, if it were, I’d hold the dog in my lap every morning.
That is not to be.
Perhaps the dog can make due with his own net book.

Do you know how exhausting being in charge is?  Of course you do, it’s like being the parent of a two year old, the CEO of a fortune 500 company and president of the PTA all rolled into one rainy afternoon, after the next rainy afternoon, after yet another rainy afternoon.
Take the dog out every day, three times a day if you can. For a long walk.
I amend that to a short walk when it’s driving rain outside.
I must stand tall.
I must take the leash.
I must take the poop bag.
I must be the Alpha Queen Dog at all times and under all circumstances.
Just call me Xena, Princess Warrior.
You can call the dog, Zeus.

I grabbed the dog and dropped him, explaining that I was the Alpha Queen dog, not him. (Actually I was a Chi Omega, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate the distinction).
He was not happy, and gave me serious looks for the rest of the hour.

Feeling good about my own progress, I left the newly subdued dog in the house while I went to work.
I returned – he had taken a large bite from my desk calendar and jumped on the kitchen table and scattered the salt all over the kitchen.
So I was not happy.

Then again, neither was he. The next morning he looked at me as if to say: you sure are bossy.
Bossy? He doesn’t know the half of it.

I’m ready for my super bossy cape, my super alpha female tiara.
I will win.  Even if it’s only against a 43 pound pit bull mix.

Once I’ve finished bathroom duty, I clean up the surprise mess in my study where the dog has taken apart his new bed, spread foam splinters all over the second floor, as well as carpeting the study with the contents of   the trash can all over the floor.
I take the dog out for a walk in the pouring rain because I just have to do it.
I am not happy in the pouring rain.
And I’m only writing this down because my husband, in a chirpy voice that comes from an undeterred belief in the goodness of the universe, says “it will get better.”