language. Using our special sign language, I motion to him to come to me.

He slowly crawls along the floor, tail between his legs, ears dragging on the ground as he slinks to my feet and sits there glumly, eyes rolled upward looking at me as if to say. “Oh puh-lease Mom, what have I done to deserve this again?”

He flumps to the f

As I write this, Huey is smiling at me from his bed. He is deaf and has cataracts. But he still manages to somehow look at me with what can only be described as loving eyes. Huey is my 11 year old dog. (77 in people years) He is, without a doubt, my best stress reliever. I know I can count on his furry hugs whenever I need them.

He is a small breed, a mix of Terrier, Poodle and some other cute pooch. He doesn’t really typify a small dog, as he isn’t a barker, he loves everyone and he’s a gentle soul. His personality leans toward the self effacing type. He’s a humble fellow. He’s blonde, just like me.

I think Huey can read lips, but I know for certain he can read minds. Take for example his bath time. If you could ascribe the emotion of hate to an animal, my Huey would own it when it has to do with water. He hates water with a passion. He has a bath every 2 or 3 weeks, not necessarily at the same time, nor even on the same day.

His doggy shampoo and towel are kept under the sink. He never sees me prepare for the event. I’ll only think that I’ll give him a bath and I’ll be in the kitchen when I think this and he’ll be in the living room. I look around the corner as I come out of the kitchen and I swear he’s sitting there with “the look” on his face. This little dog could win an Oscar with the combination of “the look” and body language. Using our special sign language, I motion to him to come to me.

He slowly crawls along the floor, tail between his legs, ears dragging on the ground as he slinks to my feet and sits there glumly, eyes rolled upward looking at me as if to say. “Oh puh-lease Mom, what have I done to deserve this again?”

He flumps to the f

is a small breed, a mix of Terrier, Poodle and some other cute pooch. He doesn’t really typify a small dog, as he isn’t a barker, he loves everyone and he’s a gentle soul. His personality leans toward the self effacing type. He’s a humble fellow. He’s blonde, just like me.

I think Huey can read lips, but I know for certain he can read minds. Take for example his bath time. If you could ascribe the emotion of hate to an animal, my Huey would own it when it has to do with water. He hates water with a passion. He has a bath every 2 or 3 weeks, not necessarily at the same time, nor even on the same day.

His doggy shampoo and towel are kept under the sink. He never sees me prepare for the event. I’ll only think that I’ll give him a bath and I’ll be in the kitchen when I think this and he’ll be in the living room. I look around the corner as I come out of the kitchen and I swear he’s sitting there with “the look” on his face. This little dog could win an Oscar with the combination of “the look” and body language. Using our special sign language, I motion to him to come to me.

He slowly crawls along the floor, tail between his legs, ears dragging on the ground as he slinks to my feet and sits there glumly, eyes rolled upward looking at me as if to say. “Oh puh-lease Mom, what have I done to deserve this again?”

He flumps to the f

minds. Take for example his bath time. If you could ascribe the emotion of hate to an animal, my Huey would own it when it has to do with water. He hates water with a passion. He has a bath every 2 or 3 weeks, not necessarily at the same time, nor even on the same day.

His doggy shampoo and towel are kept under the sink. He never sees me prepare for the event. I’ll only think that I’ll give him a bath and I’ll be in the kitchen when I think this and he’ll be in the living room. I look around the corner as I come out of the kitchen and I swear he’s sitting there with “the look” on his face. This little dog could win an Oscar with the combination of “the look” and body language. Using our special sign language, I motion to him to come to me.

He slowly crawls along the floor, tail between his legs, ears dragging on the ground as he slinks to my feet and sits there glumly, eyes rolled upward looking at me as if to say. “Oh puh-lease Mom, what have I done to deserve this again?”

He flumps to the f

s me prepare for the event. I’ll only think that I’ll give him a bath and I’ll be in the kitchen when I think this and he’ll be in the living room. I look around the corner as I come out of the kitchen and I swear he’s sitting there with “the look” on his face. This little dog could win an Oscar with the combination of “the look” and body language. Using our special sign language, I motion to him to come to me.

He slowly crawls along the floor, tail between his legs, ears dragging on the ground as he slinks to my feet and sits there glumly, eyes rolled upward looking at me as if to say. “Oh puh-lease Mom, what have I done to deserve this again?”

He flumps to the f

language. Using our special sign language, I motion to him to come to me.

He slowly crawls along the floor, tail between his legs, ears dragging on the ground as he slinks to my feet and sits there glumly, eyes rolled upward looking at me as if to say. “Oh puh-lease Mom, what have I done to deserve this again?”

He flumps to the floor and becomes a puddle of furry resignation. I remove his scarf (well, he’s a kewl dude) and pick him up. It’s like he has no bones – until we get near the sink. Then he stiffens his body as he stands in the sink glowering at me with a look of pure disgust. You can see the words written all over his face, “Traitor!”

He stands there, mouth clenched tightly, eyes straight ahead, while I wet his coat. There is no emotion other than stoicism on his little face. I shampoo him and rinse him squeaky clean. I set him on his towel and I can feel his body start to energize. I wrap the towel around his wet, skinny body and carry him into the bathroom. He’s wiggling and shaking as I try to rub him dry with the towel. With more gleeful energy than I ever imagined possible, 11 year old Huey becomes a Whirling Dervish as he races wildly about the house, skidding down the hall, running around the dining room table, leaping like he’s 2 years old again onto his section of the couch where he rubs his wet face against his favourite blanket.

From there he flies around the coffee table and careens once again, down the hall, almost bumping into a bookcase. Sometimes in his exuberance he forgets he is no longer able to jump onto the bed and he does. A look of surprise crosses his face and he appears to think…… “Holy Dog Cookies, look what I did!”

It never