Meet Bucky.

Named by his trigger-happy previous owner Buckshot; I pretend his name is short for Buckster, Buckbeak (Harry Potter fans?) or when the tennis shoes come out, Buckwild.

He would prefer to spend his days inside my mouth, but will settle for having his head permanently behind my kneecap, panting my calves into an early sweat.  He also loves to steal the Orbit gum from my purse. Quick and quiet, I often don’t even know until I turn around to kiss his big black nose and find the crime scene pictured here.

Although I have two kids now, Bucky is still the biggest baby in the family and will most likely be talked about here regularly.  Lovingly.  Laboradoringly.

My office got moved out of kid territory, which means out of dog hair territory too.  So, he’s not under my feet or wrestling with Rio the kitty as I write this.  Does anyone watch TV just to spend time with their dog?

Before I melt into slack-jawed, hazy-glazed, fetal position with dog on top, here’s a little mistake Bucky made on St. Joseph’s Day last year.  We had Indiana guests, and my purse was left in the pile of Abitas, paper towels, plastic trays and newspapers for the afternoon shrimp feast.  Bucky the intrepid reporter was tip-toeing around with my small green notebook in his mouth.  Most likely working on the afternoon scoop.

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