"I did NO such thing. Bring me a drink. A lemon cake chaser."

On Easter Sunday, Olive got to play with her canine cousins, just hours after racing across the lawn in pursuit of a petite but speedy jackrabbit. The only thing that saved the bunny from being consumed on its own holiday was the finite length of Olive’s flexi leash. I begin packing all of Olive’s things into the car. There are so many objects, I think about stopping to take a nap. Flexi-leash, training leash, dinner bowl, food, bully stick, biscuits, toy, crate and towel. It seems like the only things I don’t need to pack are diapers, a nipple and breast milk. We stop for gas and head onto the highway. Olive is pacing back and forth in the rear cargo area of my Saturn collectible. She is excited because she recognizes that this is a “trip.” I slide a CD into the player as Olive begins barking. I have somehow learned to ignore this. You can’t give a dog a command that you can’t enforce otherwise they’ll just learn to ignore you. And since I can’t figuratively backhand the dog like my father used to do to me and my brother while he was driving because the cargo area is four arm-lengths away, I just tune it out. If I “talk to her,” this just encourages her to continue the conversation she started. I would have not thought it were possible to tune out such an annoyance if I didn’t have friends with toddlers. As the child cries full throttle at a pitch so sharp that my cerebral blood vessels shrink in fear, I say, “Do you HEAR that? Doesn’t it drive you BONKERS? How can you IGNORE that?” The next thing my friends hear is this. “Yeah, gotta go. I just remembered there’s a lunar eclipse today.” When we arrive at my cousins, we are greeted at the door by Oliver (yes, Oliver), Olive’s Tibetan Terrorist cousin. About half the size of Olive, but with all of the spirit. Minutes later, Hunter, the 120-pound Golden Goofball Retriever comes barreling through the kitchen, gobs of saliva and threads of spittle flying in all directions. I turn around and look at Olive and what do I see? My beautiful pooch staring at me with a giant wad of white foamy saliva smack dab between her eyes. It’s like looking at a gob of spit stuck to the Mona Lisa. “GET ME A NAPKIN RIGHT NOW,” I announce to no one in particular. Oliver just looks at me and walks away as if to say, “I didn’t do it.” Hunter is already off using his spittle to graffiti the walls of the house. I WANT THIS SCHMOO OFF MY POOCH. SHE LOOKS LIKE A CLOWN AT AN ADULT BOOKSTORE. I wipe Olive’s dainty little head clean and all three dogs are off racing through the house, tails wagging, legs flying, and tongues hanging. That is, until I turn around to see Olive quietly and very meticulously licking the icing off the lemon bundt cake.