This is nice. I’m at my computer in my small white and dark purple home office, my belly full of Geoff’s wickedly good meatloaf, window open. It’s raining and cool, but not cold. Just right. Murry is sleeping against the door. Squirt is curled, head tucked into paws, on the raggedy recliner next to my desk, the one with half its buttons missing. I can hear Geoff and Celeste laughing, but can’t make out what they’re saying. Sounds like something about who got it the last time and getting the paper towels. I suspect the pup is involved.

Nice.

“Do you ever get the feeling that something is coming?” a friend wrote in an email recently. “That some kind of change is headed your way?”

She apologized for her vagueness, for maybe sounding a little bit crazy, but I knew exactly what she was talking about. I’ve felt that same thing myself.

As a teenager, I became enchanted with the idea of predestination, found comfort in the belief that a plan was already in place for the rest of my life and all that was required of me was to live it. How easy that was, to bear no responsibility one way or the other, to assume that regardless of the path I took, in the end, it had already been decided where I would emerge.

Gradually, my belief in predestination was replaced by the idea of fate, which to me was basically a slightly less organized, less elaborate version of the same thing. I could tell myself something simply was not meant to be and be satisfied. It was fate’s fault, not mine.

As I entered my late 30s, however, I began to realize that I had been wrong. Believing you’re helpless to change things, to affect the direction and quality of your life, is not just wrong, but lazy.

“Destiny is not a matter of chance. It is a matter of choice,” wrote William Jennings Bryan. “It is not a thing to be waited for; it is a thing to be achieved.”

That’s the kind of destiny I believe in now. That we have total say in who we are and who we become. Still, I think something more is going on, too. Something mystifying. Spiritual. Something the logical, scientific mind has trouble grasping.

Some people see it as karma–that if we do bad, bad things happen to us. And if we do good… But that’s a little too simple, a little too sweeping. Life, at least mine, isn’t that way. There’s no balancing scoreboard making certain no one gets cheated, that we reap an equal amount of what we have sown. But there are, I believe, little pushes. Something that helps us get what we need.

There have been many times I’ve felt myself nudged, felt directed to go a certain way. If I chose to ignore it, the nudge became a tug, then a push, then a shove.
Sometimes, the push frightens me, especially if I’m feeling shoved in a direction I wasn’t wanting to go. Before I met my husband, I’d sworn off men. I’d made plans for a life with just me and my daughter. There was no room in my plans for anyone else.

Nudge. Go to the conference.

I went to the conference.

Push. Go with your friends for a walk.

But it’s going to rain any minute, I argued with this . . . whatever it was.

Shove. Just go.

I went. It rained. Actually, it poured. It poured so hard my friends and I had to take cover on a nearby porch. Where Geoff, who is now my husband, was sitting.

I had recognized the shove. Argued with the shove. But I hadn’t ignored it.

Sometimes these shoves, when they come, are anything but gentle, nor are they always pleasant. They can be dealt to me, forced on me, not offered as a choice. Often, they seem more like punishment or the absolute last thing I’d want, but in every case where that’s happened, I’ve later discovered the reason behind it. Sometimes I had to work to make there be a reason, but I’ve come to believe that’s part of the plan.

Recently, on my daily quotes calendar, was one that I saved.

Good things are seldom handed to us. It often takes a push-one hard enough to make us leave our comfy nest-in order for us to go find, and value, those good things ourselves.

This new pup (whose name is now Chewy) is such a neat dog. I love how he and Murry are together. I was afraid the size difference would be a problem, but if anything, Murry ends up getting hurt far more than Chewy.

Chewy lures Murry into playing tug-of-war with this pom-pom hair band all the time. He pulls it tight, then lets go. SNAP! Gets Murry every time. And he lures Murry into chasing him at high speeds through the house, then when he senses Murry is into it enough that he’s not paying attention, he ducks under something low and Murry runs smack into it. Over and over again. My poor clueless boy.

I got a little grief after last Sunday’s column because I bought a full breed instead of a shelter dog, which I really would have preferred. It was a tough thing for me. I hate the idea of deliberately breeding dogs when shelters are full, especially when there are so many irresponsible breeders out there, treating dogs like they’re workers on a production line, churning out pups.

With the exception of Murry and two German shepherds (one in the 1960s and another in the early 80s), my family has always had mutts. Murry is a full breed–a soft coated wheaten terrier. He was purchased for us by relatives after our baby died. Since Mitch and I were still married then and he was terribly allergic to dogs, they chose a Wheaten because they’re hypoallergenic.

Anyway, I didn’t want to get a full breed, so for the last few months, my daughter and I had been going online to the different websites like Petfinders and the local shelters looking for a small Yorkie-ish dog. There was nothing. (On Petfinders, there actually are many Yorkies listed as available, but there are nearly none that aren’t marked as not liking children, cats or other dogs, and NONE anywhere close to West Virginia.)

What it ended up boiling down to, though was this wasn’t MY dog or MY money. It was my daughter’s choice and decision and responsibility. She understands about animals in the shelter. It’s where we got our cat Gypsy, who was the next scheduled to be euthanized. (She was older than the rest and had been there the longest.) She’s far more aware than most eight-year-olds, but she’s still just a kid. And this pup–this full breed pup–is what she wanted. And there’s no way I can look at the two of them (or the three of them, if you count Murry) and think he was any kind of mistake. I love this bright, happy little dog. I love how he is with Celeste. The rest of the crowd is mine. He’s hers.

I DO want to look into a few local puppy mills I was told about, along with some pet stores. If there are bad breeders in this area, I’d love to hear about them. If you don’t want to post your comments here in a public forum, send me an email directly at karinfuller@cnpapers.com. I appreciate it!

Really good double episode of 24 this week, although I was crushed that they killed Edgar. I loved his character and thought they were going to develop something more between him and Chloe. I just hope they don’t kill Chloe. I love her attitude and facial expressions.

I didn’t care much for Kim returning. Maybe they just brought her back so they could kill her. Her character has annoyed me from the very first year. The way she reacted after finding out her dad was still alive . . . there wasn’t even a flash of her being torn between happy and pissed. A better actress might’ve been able to pull that off in a more believable manner, but not her.

I was also bothered by how Henderson managed to blow up the room he’d locked Jack in, yet Jack still managed to get out and made it back to Henderson’s house before Henderson did. They didn’t show anything to account for it taking him so much longer to get there.

Kim’s “boyfriend” (Barry?) is creepy. I’m guessing he might be some kind of a mole, knowing she’d eventually get him inside CTU.

And finally, I’m thinking Tony’s days are numbered. With Michelle gone, I have a feeling he’s due for some heroic last act, although he’ll probably off Henderson first. (They were both in the same room at the end of Monday’s episode, and I think he knows he was responsible for Michelle’s death.)

Feeling a bit down in the dumps. Last week I was diagnosed with glaucoma. I’d been seeing light flashes in my left eye and getting wicked headaches, but it still came as a surprise. Over the weekend, I lost sight in my left eye twice for several hours at a stretch. Well, I didn’t completely lose it. It was more like I was looking through milk or grease. I went back to my eye doc yesterday and the pressure numbers had gone up quite a bit more in just one week. I’m now on special eye drops, but may end up having to have laser surgery if the drops don’t do the trick.

I haven’t had the best few years health wise. I need a break.

I’m not usually the kind of person who acts on impulse. Well, I admit I’ve made some decisions that might’ve appeared impulsive. Like that time I colored my hair at 3 a.m. and wound up looking goth. Or the time I agreed to take over a Brownie troop, thinking, “How hard could it be?” Sure, those might’ve looked like the acts of an impulsive person, but really–they weren’t. There was some logic involved. Like thriftiness with the hair color, using something I already had, in spite of the expiration date. Or when I said yes to the Brownies–I knew at the very worst I’d wind up with the stuff that columns are made of.

Normally, I’m a cautious person, one who plans every move, considers all the options, anticipates potential pitfalls. Except for one time each year, when I behave with reckless abandon.

I didn’t realize until last weekend that a theme had emerged regarding my annual impulsive behavior, a theme similar to a Chinese calendar (with hiccups). For instance, 2002 was The Year of the Dog (Murry), and 2003, 2004 and 2005 were each The Year of the Cat (Squirt, then Gypsy, then Sully). Now 2006 has brought us back to the dog. (So far, we’re calling him Shorty, but that could change.)

It was the last thing I intended. The very last thing. I will swear that to my dying day.

My eight-year-old daughter became obsessed with Yorkshire Terriers a few years ago, but as she’s had many passionate, yet quickly passing, fancies, I expected this to follow suit. That wasn’t the case. If anything, her desire to have one just picked up steam. She spent hours reading about them, drawing Yorkie pictures, decorating her room with anything Yorkie related that she could bat her big browns and convince someone to buy.

Finally, my husband and I agreed that if she could save the money herself, she could get one. At her age, she has no real concept of why someone should save, doesn’t grasp how long it can take or the different way you value something you worked hard to get. We thought it would be a good lesson.

And it would’ve been, too. If I wasn’t such a soft-headed, soft-hearted, spineless animal lover. One capable of falling in love at first sight.

It began innocently enough last Saturday morning, with me and Celeste killing time at Biscuit World while our car was next door getting inspected. She was playing with her Nintendo, a game called “Nintendog,” with her dog in the game being, of course, a Yorkie. Soon, she was asking (again) when she’d have enough money saved to get one of her own.

“But I have $125,” she said. “That’s a lot of money.”

“It is,” I agreed. “But it’s probably nowhere near enough.”

She refused to believe me, so to prove my point, I took her to Missy’s Pet Store in Poca. And I saw that face. Then I heard those words that always make my heart beat just a little bit faster (”marked down” and “only two left.”)

The rest, shall we say, is spineless history. It wasn’t one of my best teaching moments as a mother, but it was certainly one when I was most adored. (Not to mention the one when I received the most promises per second. I now have them in writing, along with a payment plan and accounting of what she’s already put in.)

The one thing still bothering me is that I feel like a hypocrite, allowing her to get a full-breed when I’ve always been passionately opposed to the deliberate breeding of dogs when our shelters are full. We’d been regularly checking Petfinder.com and the shelters online and found nothing even remotely Yorkie-ish there.

Somehow, though, I feel Shorty (or whatever his name is by now) was meant to be ours. He fit right in without any major adjustments and has lived up to Celeste’s dream of what her dog would be. He follows her everywhere, sleeps snuggled close in her bed, enjoys being carried and cuddled and kissed.

So I’ve crossed “Act impulsively” off my list of Things To Do in 2006, determined that our ark doors have swung shut for good.

At least ’til next year.

NOTE: Shorty, who is now being called Teddy, is actually a Silky Terrier, which is sort of a Supersized Yorkie. When full grown, he should be between 12-15 lbs, although if he follows the trend of the other Supersized animals (and adults) at our house, he’ll be a few more than that.

My aunt called today from California to tell me that the Movieland Wax Museum has closed and they’re having a big auction next weekend to sell everything. You don’t have to be there in person - you can bid online, too.

How often do you get a chance to bid on Prince Charming’s HEAD? (Disappointing, isn’t he? I always figured ol’ Prince would have a bit on top.)

They’re selling all the stuff from the sets, too. Some pretty quirky things, like the stretching rack from a torture chamber set or a whole taxidermied horse.

Want something really scary for your yard next Halloween to scare all the kiddies? Skip the 8′ Frankenstein and bid on the life-sized Michael Jackson instead.

I don’t really know why, but
this one on the left here is
one of my favorites. Maybe
it’s his keen fashion sense…
(Male tourist with camera)

Some of the heads you can bid on include O.J. Simpson, Pee Wee Herman, Princess Diana, Bruce Lee, Tom Cruise. (I wonder if Brooke Shields is going to bid on that one? She could probably set a new drop-kick record with it.)

This is supposed to be Sylvester Stallone.
Did he ever play a drag queen?

For the avid do-it-yourselfer, there will even be a few opportunities to bid on assorted lots of miscellaneous wax heads and assorted body parts so you can build your own.