The advice on how to help older, possibly arthritic dogs and cats stay mobile in this issue’s Creatures Comfort* column reminded me of the time I consulted an animal behavior expert about one of my dogs.

Our dear Lou Ann, who was tossed out of a car when she was just a puppy, had terrible separation anxiety. She’d chew her way from one end of the house to the other whenever Phil and I would leave. So I hired an “expert” and invited him over to see whether he could give me some advice.

“Do you realize what you’ve been doing the whole time we’ve been talking?” he asked in an accusatory tone.

“No, what?”

“You’ve been petting her nonstop while she’s lying on your lap!” he said, and then demanded, “Where does she sleep at night?”

“Uh, on my pillow, wrapped around my head.”

“You have to stop that! You need to get her off the furniture. And stop petting her unless you’re rewarding her during training.”

Lou Ann looked up at me with her sweet, soulful eyes. I clutched my imaginary pearls and recoiled in horror. If I wanted a pet I couldn’t cuddle, I’d buy a goldfish.

Ninety bucks poorer, I showed the “expert” to the door. Before he was out of the driveway, I was on the phone with my best pal, Deirdre. “He expected me to stop petting Lou Ann!” I said, outraged.

 “Are you serious?” she gasped. As you can see in the photo BELOW, she doesn’t buy the tough love thing, either.

                        
                 Photography by: Lynn Terry Photography

The chewing eventually stopped. And not only do my muttleys still get on the furniture, we’ve installed wooden stairs to help ‘em.

To learn more about separation anxiety, visit www.petplace.com  and search for "separation anxiety in dogs" and "separation anxiety in cats."

*Creatures Comfort is a column available exclusively in the print version of Mary Engelbreit's Home Companion. To subscribe now, click here. 

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It started with a watercolor "study" that my 7-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, did in art class. I don't think it was an assignment—just something she whipped up while daydreaming about her room. Basically, it was her vision of what her room should look like. For years she'd been sulking because it was painted yellow. She went through the expected, "I want a pink and purple room" phase, which I ignored because I knew it would pass. But when she came home with this study—orange walls, multicolored polka dots, and white and red horizontal lines slicing through the center, how could I ignore it?

                     
                                 The painting that started it all.

My husband and I agreed. We gave her a choice: She could either go with a basic roller paint job as a base, or do something more mottled, aged, imperfect, and glazelike. She went with the latter. We went to the store and got the materials. I cleared the room. There was no excuse for further procrastination. With brushes in hand, we started. I almost wimped out. I didn't want this bright orange thing to happen. But I followed Elizabeth's lead, glopping on the acrylic, going thick, adding texture. You had to just let go and let it happen.

                     
                        The artist at work, expressing her vision.

Here’s how we did it: On a paint tray, add water to the deep end and place a big glob of yellow and red acrylic adjacent to each other on the high end, about 2 tablespoons each. With a wet brush take a little bit of red and orange and use the tray like a palette to mix it. Apply to wall in broad strokes. Keep wetting your brush and mixing the paint. Let dry. Add polka dots freehand or with a stencil. Then mask out stripes and paint.

                   
                                           A colorful corner.

Now she wants to add images of monkeys to the ceiling. Stay tuned...

*Update*

                    
Elizabeth and her sister, Anna, survey the polka-dotted terrain from the loft bed.

I’ve had the performing bug since I danced to Tony Orlando and Dawn’s “Who’s in the Strawberry Patch with Sally” in my 6th-grade talent show. So when my boys decided to do “Greased Lightning,” a song from the musical Grease , for their school variety show, I was ecstatic.

Unfortunately, my husband’s stint as catcher for Bob’s Big Boy had left just as indelible of an impression. He signed Tanner, 11 and Saxon, 9, up for Little League baseball, and the battle to relive our glory days began.

I knew our act was going to take a ton of work, so we recruited the rest of the T-Birds and got busy. The guys studied Danny Zuko’s moves religiously on YouTube, and we crept into the aerobics studio at our gym so they could practice in front of the mirrors.

Meanwhile, the boys were drafted by the Little League Orioles, and Jimmy began commandeering the calendar with practices, stealing clinics, and sessions at the batting cage. “They’ve gotta learn how to squish the bug!” he said, explaining a special at-bat stance. “Nothing is more important than jazz hands,” I countered.

The boys started wearing their Orioles jerseys 24/7. It’s not like I wanted to bedazzle their baseball pants a la Dancing with the Stars, but did they have to look like such jocks?

Tanner started to catch, Jimmy’s old position, and the coach said he was a natural. Saxon, in right field, became a human vacuum, sucking down anything in his path. My husband was thrilled; I was worried. I was losing them. And then there was the snack shack—how could I compete with warm, post-game chocolate chip cookies?

Luckily, the big show was upon us. The boys blew the roof off the cafetorium, especially when, midway through the song, they turned a life-sized, rickety cardboard car around to reveal a gleaming red racing machine, flames and all. In the end, Tanner and Saxon fell in love with baseball, and didn’t mind the adoration (and signing autographs out on the playground) after the show, either. Jimmy and I were exhausted. But the thrill of watching our kids discover experiences that had brought us such sweetness years ago was worth it.

                                
The show biz gene runs strong on my side of the family. Here I am at age 12 performing in the Daves Avenue Elementary School musical, “George M.”

                            
Saxon: A budding Hank Aaron or the next Fred Astaire?

                             
When he's not practicing his jazz hands, Tanner can be found behind home plate.

LINKS
www.parentingsquad.com/which-kind-of-little-league-parent-are-you

www.familyfun.go.com/parties/kids-games/feature/famf77summer100/famf77summer10020.html

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After spending months brainstorming, photographing, designing, and writing an issue of HOME COMPANION, the staff always relishes getting a copy hot off the presses. The August/September issue is no exception. Finally, the physical pages are in our hands.  From sketches and sticky notes, to eureka moments on the computer, to multiple copies of layouts and edited manuscripts—now, the real thing. 

Slowly turning each page, I remembered the afternoon at Mary’s house when Mikayla gently tossed Skinny over her shoulder and escaped our snapping cameras. I also remembered laughing with Betsy Duggan and her daughters in their sherbet-colored kitchen. While reading Out On A Whim, about the wedding of Libby Curotto to Greg Kueneke, I lingered longer. In fact, I could easily have gotten all misty if there weren’t so much foot traffic outside my office.

                        
This photo was taken at Seaside, Florida, the summer Libby Curotto was 9 and my daughter Libby was 8. In the middle is Libby’s mom, our creative style editor, Kathy Curotto.

                   
                        Greg and Libby shortly after he proposed.

Everyone always says the bride was beautiful, but Libby was radiant. Yes, the scrappy long-legged soccer player had turned into an elegant princess over the years, and never was she more lovely than that night.

I’ll always remember September 19 as an enchanted evening, and I’ll always be thankful to be among the family and friends that wished Mr. and Mrs. Kueneke a wonderful and long life together.

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