"ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz"

If you want to see Olive instantly switch from her sweet tempered disposition to that of Lizzie “Bite My Axe” Borden, just try taking one of her “dead” toys away. A plush squirrel she has filleted open from tail to neck. A giant tennis ball that has been deskinned, its neon yellow fuzz peeled away in asymmetrical patches. It is the only time she becomes absolutely furious with me. “HOW DARE YOU. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT WAS TO TEAR THAT THING TO PIECES WITH JUST MY TEETH? DROP IT. IT’S MINE.” She trails me to the trash can, almost hyperventilating as she jumps up and down trying to snatch it from my hand like a distraught vulture. If you want to see me become furious with Olive, just watch me become equally unhinged when I catch her in the bathroom using the toilet tissue roll as her own personal Pez dispenser. “ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR DOG MIND??? BAD GIRL! BAD GIRL! OUT NOWWWWWWWW!” Some days it’s like living with a rebellious teenager challenging boundaries both great and small. Other days it’s like living with a bipolar Curious George. And then, when I look at her stretched out on the couch (like right now), with her nose tucked into or underneath a pillow or her own leg as though she’s trying to protect it from the light, my heart melts. Especially when she starts snoring very lightly. It sounds so peaceful. And in that moment, I forget about the countless times she’s robbed the waste basket in the bathroom, chewing the Breathe Right strips as if they are sticks of Dentyne, chomping on the Q-Tips as though they were clove cigarettes and flinging her head from side to side to rid herself of the mint-flavored dental floss tangled around her tonsils like an errant strand of hair. I kiss her gently on the top of her head and whisper, “You little ball buster. Good thing you’re so adorable.”