I have always called LolliPop my little Mud Puppy. Just like Pearl was my Baked Potato, there’s no rhyme or reason for the name. Until now. Until Ojai.

Thrilled to have a yard again, she can’t just go out in the back and just do her business. Oh no. She’s got to climb up the hill behind the house and investigate every corner of the property, every single time she goes outside.

Dense in vegetation and ripe with the scent of coyote that pass in the early morning hours, there’s lots to entertain her. The dirt on the slope is more clay than dust, and because it’s rained several times in the past couple of weeks, right now it is a thick and slick and sticky paste.

Sometimes she calmly walks along the length of the ramp and plods back to the deck. More likely, though, she’ll take off from the top of the hill, ears and tongue flapping as she comes crashing down at top speed, energized, I like to think, by a sense of adventure. Freedom. Reckless abandon. Probably, she’s just having a damn good time.

She shuffles to the door, mud caked to her feet like sasquatch slippers. The first time she walked in, at 6:30 in the morning, I thought she’d stepped in poo. It took me by surprise and it took me 20 minutes to clean the muck from between her pads. Last night I pulled off the chunky clumps and stuck her little feet in the sink. This afternoon, I just carried a big bowl outside and plunked those paws, one at a time, in the warm water. Complimentary Puppy Paw Scrub and Drying Massage.

With all this trouble, it makes more sense to just take her outside on the leash and stand there with her while she pees, confined to one clean and pristine spot.

Invariably the rains will stop and the mud will dry. It is Southern California, after all.

She’s a country girl, and and she’s happy. She can run, and play. And breathe.

Think about it.

When was the last time you walked barefoot in the rain, jumped with both feet in puddles or bared your naked puppies to the mud?

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Between now and then I have one full day left of work, 3 chiropractic appointments, one hair appointment and a date with the dentist to remove the only existing wisdom tooth in my head. I’d like to set aside some time to get together with friends but I just don’t know if that is going to happen. The last few months seemed like they would last forever and I figured I had all the time in the world but now I have a house full of furniture and boxes that need to find a home, fast. I placed a few things on Craigslist but up till now I’ve only managed to sell a couple of rugs.

Fortunately I spent yesterday with two of my best friends from my college days at the ODU Oceanography Department. Julie and Carole have been with me since LA trip number one in 1995. They have always supported my dreams, even when logic was not a deciding factor. Saturday I had dinner with SuzeCate, my long-lost elementary school chum brought back via FaceBook, who it turns out has been less than 10 miles from me for most of the past 20 years. Friday night the best neighbors on the planet cooked me a vegetarian dinner and we whooped it up in our usual fashion of unusual entertainment like reading How the Grinch Stole Christmas, playing the piano and dancing swing (or attempting to) by the fire to Christmas tunes while banging on bongos that only one of us truly knows how to play.

And a couple of weeks ago I spent a brief but oh so magical afternoon in Louisa with three of the OBX Skanks, Debra, Pam and Steff. We were blessed with a pretty cool snowstorm that dropped some cozy Christmas cheer into our quick but memorable day and took a few pictures for Lee Lee out in Colorado. My friend Brenda is coming all the way from Lynchburg to spend this weekend helping me pack and keep my sanity, and last night’s work party provided a great last chance to be merry with the colleagues. Christmas I’ll be staying with my mom and Hosa and having the annual oyster breakfast with my sister (both of them, I hope) and it’s the one time of the year I eat oysters, even though I still only eat them fried. New Year’s Eve I’ll be in Colorado with my best-est longtime friend Lee Lee. But there are still people I want badly to see before I go.

It would be easy enough to schedule a couple of hours this weekend to meet in one of the local pubs if it weren’t for the one snag in these perfectly flowing plans, and that is LolliPop. My baby seems to be suffering from some sort of spinal problem for a few days now and both a trip to the chiropractor and strong doses of drugs have helped only slightly. We spent last night sleeping in the living room floor, her head curled against a pillow between me and the sofa, Daisy above us keeping a watchful eye on her while I slept.

I’ve massaged, held, and sung Unchained Melody to this dog, but despite muscle relaxers and pain killers she’s shaking and whining, and when I went to check on her at lunch today she hobbled over to me like a little old woman, scooted her head into my lap on the floor and tried to curl up into my body as much as she could. I’m wearing my big girl panties because I’m the mama and I’m not the one hurting, but it’s brought me close to tears more than once already today and the Christmas songs, bittersweet as they are, are not helping. Logically I know she will be fine but with me logic is usually lost to emotion, and hearing O Holy Night back to back with Dan Fogelberg’s Same Old Lang Syne sends my thoughts to the summer of 2008 when I lost Pearl just weeks before the last scheduled move and synchronicity swirled in like a mist over the full moon to change my plans for awhile. Quite frankly I’m not willing to go there again.

So Lolli and I head into visit Dave, another dear friend and in my opinion absolutely the best veterinarian in Virginia Beach. He thinks Lolli’s got a bad disk in her back and takes x-rays and amazingly, her back is fine, perfect bone from top to bottom. But she’s also full of crap, from tip to tail, so much so that it’s clearly visible on the x-ray screen. Turns out, my dog is constipated. Her back hurts because the muscles around her spine are going into spasms made worse by the fact that she’s packed full of poop. The irony of this revelation isn’t lost on me at all ~ not after all I’ve been through here. The thing is, my instincts were telling me this was the problem but I jumped to the worst conclusion, even thinking she had a tumor, instead of trusting what I already knew.

Lolli got an enema and I got a reminder to give myself a break and trust what I know, which is that things are going to be just fine. Now it’s 9:30 at night and I’m eating a late dinner while standing outside in the freezing cold encouraging my dog to relax and just let it flow. Change is good, especially when it’s change you’ve put in motion yourself. Times like these, when there seems to be so much to do and the memories are swirling and the friends are saying goodbye and you feel one door closing and the other one opening, it’s just good to remember that selling the rugs is not the same as having them pulled out from under you.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

Yes, my dogs sleep in my bed. In their defense, they don’t know it’s mine. They think it’s ours. And I must make a pretty good bed warmer, because I normally wake to Daisy smashed against a hip and Lolli snuggled tightly in the space between my knees. Daisy occasionally snores and every so often when she’s really tired, Lolli lets out a trill in her sleep that flutters her lips and scares the pee out of me, but the truth is, I like their company. They make me feel safe.

“If you ever want to get married again, don’t tell a man you sleep with dogs.”

Sage advice from my stepdad, Hosa. Well-meant wise words spoken from a cringing male face, and I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hi, my name is Karal and I sleep with dogs” isn’t typically my opening line.

First there was Pearl. Then I found Lolli.

And then I heard from Sean, another caring and concerned friend. “You’ve already got one pitiful looking dog, Karal. Now you’re going to adopt a dog with no bottom jaw and a tongue that hangs out of its mouth? You need to think about what kind of guys you’ll attract when you’re out walking those dogs. You’ll make an impression. I’m just saying.”

Lolli and Daisy, my infamous 85-lb beagle rescue, definitely draw a lot of attention. Teenage boys on skateboards think Lolli’s tongue dragging the ground or covered in sand is pretty awesome. Ditto for Daisy. Now down to a svelte 53.2, she’s got a stripe of white hair running wildly down her back like her own radical rat tail, a turkey-breast sized chest of fat that wiggles and jiggles when she walks, and genuine bona fide butt cheeks. She’s the neighborhood social butterball, and she’s way cool.

Lolli’s tongue almost always causes a little confusion, though. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard someone mutter under their breath That Dog Needs Some Water! when we walk on the beach. Once I explain that Lolli was horribly mistreated, had 17 surgeries to repair her face, and is now a very happy, hardware- and jawbone-free dog, and is in fact not suffering from heat stroke, they will usually jump up from their chair to hug both me and the girls.

At first, I considered having a t-shirt made saying My Dog Can’t Hold Her Licker and just going about my own business. But people are drawn to them, and I’ve talked at length with numerous kids and their parents about rescued dogs, and injuries, and the healing power of a little happiness and love. But I’m only telling their story; they lived it.  Now, they deserve to rest their heads on a comfy mattress or a cozy leg, and not be confined to the floor like dirty laundry.

Which leads me back to the bed-sleeping beagles.

About a month ago my next-door neighbor watched the dogs for the weekend and his 6-year-old daughter helped.

Meredith: “I’ve been inside your house.”

Me: Yes, I know.”

Meredith: “I fed your dogs.”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

Meredith: “I’ve been in your bedroom.”

Me: “Yes, I know.” (Ok, I didn’t know. But I figure she’s six and curious. No harm done).

Meredith: “Your bed is full of dog hair.”

Woman to woman so to speak. No unsolicited advice, no dire words of warning, no judgment. Just the truth.

I came close to asking her if that’s why her daddy hasn’t asked me out, but I bought a really good dog brush and doubled up on the vacuuming instead.

My dogs still sleep in my bed, because that’s just the way it is. I’m no longer oblivious to the dog hair, but changing my ways in anticipation of snagging some uptight none-dog-loving guy I wouldn’t want to share my bed with anyway doesn’t make any more sense to me than worrying that walking in public with them will somehow lure the weirdos and freaks out of the woodwork while all the good guys run for cover.

And for the record, sleeping with dogs had nothing to do with my divorce.

We had cats.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.

The first time I met Pearl she was standing at the edge of my parent’s yard in the bitter February cold wearing nothing but a pink towel and a smile.

She’d shown up from nowhere about 2 weeks prior and stuck around despite my dad’s refusal to feed her for the first three days, hoping, no doubt, she’d go back to wherever it was she belonged. Pearl had other ideas, and eventually he relented, fed the dog a piece of leftover chicken, and as he always likes to tell, cleaned out the refrigerator while she stood there, half-starved, waiting for more. My niece, 8 years old and thrilled to have a pet, promptly named the dog Pearl, claimed her as her own, and covered her with a towel to keep her warm while she slept in my parent’s shed.

Two years later Pearl was digging holes in the backyard and my sister was threatening the pound. I’d just left a fairly messed up relationship, already had two cats, and was kinda-sorta subletting a converted garage apartment from a friend who kinda-sorta hadn’t yet informed the landlord I was there. I wasn’t exactly looking for a dog, but I’ve never been very good at passing up strays, — either the animal or people variety, — but Pearl wasn’t much of a dog in the normal sense of the word.

She’d been so mistreated and abused that she’d literally had the personality beaten out of her. She was rigid and stiff and complacent, and you could lift her, bend her, shape her, pose her into any position and she would stay that way, afraid to move. Long before I realized I would be taking this tattered beagle home, I had teasingly nicknamed her Doorstop Pearl and Lawn Ornament Pearl because she was just so … still. But I always sought her out when I visited my sister, and normally I’d find her smashed to the back of her doghouse, staying out of harm’s way, just happy to have a place to sleep in relative safety and quiet. Everyone else thought she was a joke, but I liked her.

I liked her, in part, because I could identify with her. I’d just walked out the door and down the road from meanness, too, and I could relate to being too scared to move, and sleeping with your back pressed against a wall and I could relate to wanting to be quiet and left alone. I could relate to her gentleness and I could relate to the scar on her right cheek, because I had one too.

Pearl, true to her Southern name, was a mixture of grace and grit. Her left ear was ripped and separated, the bottom few inches torn in two, but she had the sweetest face, and quiet, calm eyes. Fearful of the nightly summertime fireworks, she’d climb behind me on the couch and shiver and shake while I held her, calming her down, yet many nights I’d wake during a thunderstorm to find her standing on my chest, front legs planted firmly and head held high like a coyote on a cliff, guarding me from unseen evil. With a fierce determination and a faraway look in her eyes, using her paws to scrape at my hair and my head, she’d gather me safely from danger into a nice, neat, if not slightly scratched and annoyed, bundle.

She earned the nickname Lightning because she walked painfully slow under most circumstances, and normally I’d have to carry her back from our walks, but she’d frolic in the dunes when we went down to the beach. I often forget that one of my first photographs was of Pearl running through the sand. Pearl didn’t know how to play, but toward the end of her life, she’d get frisky for a moment or two and bounce around with abandon. I think it surprised even her. She could sleep all day, but traveled with me all the way across country to California, and we’d play chase in the hotel hallways at night. One of her favorite things to do was walk the short walk to the corner, strolling along in true Pearl style. She’d do her business, sniff the telephone pole, then turn and look at me with her “spunky monkey” face and take off running back to the house. I’d have to quickly unhook her leash or she’d wiggle like a fish on the end of a pole. Off she’d go, galloping back to the house, weaving across the road, looking back to make sure I was in close pursuit. Sometimes she’d wait, then spring forward again. And then, she’d walk back in our house, slowly up the stairs, and into bed where she’d promptly fall asleep.

For six years, Pearl wasn’t much of a dog, but she made me laugh, and she was was my best friend, my fairy godmother and my guardian angel all rolled into one. Then, with little warning, her kidneys failed and she became sick and began to fade away and over a sunny, three day period last spring, I waited and watched while she got worse, got better, got worse, improved, and came home.

Pearl spoke a language that had nothing to do with words. The night before she died, she woke around 4am to go outside. I sat on the patio, under a sky full of stars, the air scented with magnolia and honeysuckle, while she slept in my arms. Listening to her breathe, smelling her neck, feeling her warmth, trying to take her in, remember it all. I sat there holding my dog, and I made a few promises, quietly, about the way I would live my life, without fear, without regret, with a little playfulness, a little bit of spunk, and a lot of love. With no more thunderstorms to fight, she woke, pushed her front feet against my chest, leaned her head back to look at me, and for the next several minutes just stared into my eyes, the faraway look replaced with something intense and genuine and strong. Then she laid her head back down and once again went to sleep.

Today, I  see the first magnolia blossom of the year, and I remember Pearl. The honeysuckle has bloomed again. And yes, I get it. Sometimes, life just sucks. People leave. Dogs die. Things change. Life goes on. And that’s just the way it is. But that day, after our vet left the room and all that remained was to say goodbye, what I heard escape from my lips sounded an awful lot more like please come back.

©2010 the orange chair. All Rights Reserved.