Dog is man’s best friend.

That has never been more true than in the case of my best friend, Sting, and today I had to say goodbye.

By all accounts, Sting wasn’t much of a dog as compared to other dogs.

He didn’t know any tricks, unless you count knocking over trash cans 10 times his size.

He didn’t obey any commands.

He never sat, rolled over, or spoke on command.

Oh sure… he did all things, but never because I asked him to.  He sat when he got bored or tired, he rolled over only when he found a mud puddle that needed some attention, and he only spoke when he needed to go outside to investigate the shenanigans of a rouge squirrel or rabbit that might have been trespassing in his yard. And catching a Frisbee…forget about it. Why should he run over there and try to catch that thing?  I am the one that threw it.

Like I said, compared to other dogs he was quite useless.

But I never compared him to other dogs.  He was just my friend, and I don’t expect all the things listed above from any of my friends either…except the Frisbee part (most of my friends would at least try to catch a Frisbee).  I think Frisbee just wasn’t his game.  Now that I think about it, if I been throwing squirrels or rabbits, then we might have had some fun.

As friends go, he was the best.

He was humble, unassuming, generous, and loyal.

And though he would never win any awards for his dogness, he won my love and attention for over 14 years.

In the summer of 1996, I had traveled to Muffreesboro, TN to attend a Sting concert.  After the concert I stayed with some friends before returning to Knoxville.  When we got out of the car, a little scrappy puppy ran up to one of my friends as if to say “You came back for me.”  I assumed my friend had a new pet.  My friend explained to me that while he was filling his car up with gas earlier that day, he saw this poor little puppy outside the gas station trying to eat gum off the pavement.  My friend said he felt so sorry for him that he gave him some of the dog food that he kept in his car for his dog because they traveled together so much.  He said he had never seen a dog so hungry, and he couldn’t just leave him there.

I asked my friend what he was planning to do with the dog.  He didn’t know.

We went inside the apartment, and I didn’t think another thing about that little puppy…until the next morning.

This little dog had decided to make camp underneath my car.  I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him, but when I opened the car door to pack my things he jumped inside and hunkered down in the floor of the back seat.

What could I do?  “I guess you’re coming with me,” I said, and off we set for home.

That was the foulest two and a half hours of my life.

Dear Lord did that dog need a bath.  Had I not been so light headed from trying to hold my breath and breathe only through my mouth, I might have come up with a better name, but since I acquired this mutt during my trip to the Sting concert, I figured STING to be a fitting name.

Up until this point in my life, I had never been a dog owner, so I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for de-stinking a mutt.  I drove straight to Walgreens and purchased everything on the shelf related to dog grooming that I could afford.

That dog stink didn’t have a chance.  I hit it with a plethora of shampoos, conditioners, flea treatments, and dog brushes.  When I finished with Sting’s first bath, he looked worse than when I started, but he smelled clean, and I think he appreciated the attention.

Sting went everywhere with me that summer.  He became a constant in my life.

So when he didn’t get up to greet me one day when I came home from work,  I knew something was wrong.  He wasn’t eating or drinking a thing, but he was “going” everywhere…I’ll leave out the details, but let’s just say that he had re-introduced the dog-stink into my life.

I carried Sting in my arms to the vet just a few blocks down the street, and I just knew that things didn’t look good for this little guy.

After the vet’s examination, he said that Sting had Parvo, and that this virus would most likely cause such a high fever that it would kill him.

The vet said he would give him some fluids to ease his dehydration, but if his condition didn’t improve in 24 hours, it would be best to put him down.

I was a broke college student, and I didn’t have the money to try to save this dog’s life (especially since I had just spent all my money on dog shampoo).  I told the vet, “Do what you can for him, and I guess I’ll check back tomorrow.”  Then I left; expecting to have to put my new dog down the next day.

I don’t know what went through Sting’s little fevered brain that night as he lay in a cold metal cage at the vet’s office, but I like to think that he thought, “This guy really needs a friend like me, so I better get well so I can look after him.”

When I called the vet the next day, I couldn’t believe what he told me.  Sting’s fever had gone, and he looked like he might be just fine, and I could take him home the next day.

I walked into that vet’s office carrying a dog and left a few days later walking home with a friend.

Sting shared my life for the next 14 years…college craziness, the heartbreak of a girlfriend, moving to Seattle, returning home to Knoxville, a new roommate I called “My Wife”, job losses, business ventures, another roommate I called “a child”, remodeling a house, another roommate called “Trout” (our 100-pound chocolate lab), more roommates called “children”, the diagnosis of MS,  a miscarriage, a new home,  the loss of Trout and countless other events I am sure that only he remembers.

And I, too, shared his life during those 14 years…having to leave him with family while I chased my dreams in Seattle, him being hit by a car and having several surgeries which left him with only 3 good legs and metal rods in his front legs (personally I think he limped around for years just for the sympathy),  eating numerous holiday desserts left on the kitchen counter, inhaling an entire bag of Hershey’s Kisses (aluminum foil wrappers and all), 2 hernia surgeries, being the sole canine survivor of a house fire which claimed 4 other dogs (his roommate Trout being one of them), and the introduction of 3 small children to his home and countless other events I am sure that only I remember.

As he got older he lost a bit of the giddy-up in his step (being hit by a car will do that to you), his hearing was all but gone, and I think his vision started to fade…either that or he just flat out ignored me when I came around.  And even though he spent most of the last few years of his life curled up in the corner underneath my wife’s desk (he would hang out there because he hated ceiling fans) and making the nightly trips to the dinner table where he would patiently wait for the tasty morsels that rain down like manna from heaven when you have small children living with you, he was always loyal to me.

He never complained, even though he must have been in quite a bit of pain and discomfort the past few weeks.  He never asked anything of me except  for a good scratch behind the ears and a dog biscuit every now and then.  He never judged me for all my faults, but loved me every day that he lived.

I don’t really know what caused Sting to take such a drastic turn for the worse these last few weeks, but I like to think he has watching me these last few years from the corner of the living room and saying, “You’re doing pretty good now old friend. I’ve taught you all I know.  I best be going now.  You can take it from here.”

Sting, I will miss you…

and if the book is true, you’ll be the first in line at Heaven’s gate.

(Don’t worry.  God doesn’t need ceiling fans.)

The doctor broke The Wife’s water at 9:12am and The Baby was born later in the evening.

An epidural was administered when The Wife was about 7cm and a few pushes later, The Baby was officially here.

The Wife gave birth to our older boys without the use of an epidural, and with the arrival of The Baby, we have already afforded him luxuries that the older two never received.

He is feeding well and sleeping well.

The Wife has already changed The Baby’s first poopy diaper. I love that woman.

Tomorrow we make the colossal leap from a family of four to a “Party of Five.” And with the birth of The Baby we will be doing to The Subsequent child what we said we would never wish on another child.

We will have created our very own Middle Child.

My wife and I are both middle children, and we have lived a life with the world against us.  It’s a fact.

The Firstborn reigns supreme in the land of Children and The Baby is afforded all the luxuries of being the most precious of the clan.  The Subsequent Child…now to be referred to as the outcast Middle Child, will probably suffer greatly in this life because of the twisted world in which Middle Children have always had to struggle.

Oh well little Middle Child…that’s life.

I know, I know.  We will most likely come down on you harder than we did for The Firstborn when you don’t behave as we expect, but The Firstborn will have shown us the error of our ways.  We will try to make up for our own deficiencies in parenting by correcting you more often, and by the time The Baby can be held accountable for his actions…well…we’ll just be too darn tired to care.

But know this, Children of KTOWN, no matter how unjustly you are treated because of your birth order, we expect you all to fully support us in our golden years.

Firstborn…you are the big guy now and we expect you to pass down the wisdom of your age to your siblings…or…Pawns as you will lovingly think of them.

Middle Child…life is hard.  The sooner you learn this, the sooner you will appreciate it and the sweeter your victories over your older brother will taste…even though they may seem few and far between.  I hope that fact comforts you during the hours in which you spend in the corner entertaining yourself because mommy is too tired from cleaning up after The Baby.  And even though it may seem that we love The Firstborn and The Baby more than you, we don’t.  Our goal with all of you is the same…to get you all out of the house as soon as possible.

And The Baby.  Well…your job is to remain cute and compassionate toward your parents through all circumstances.  Look upon us with grace at all times, and remember, we choose to have you last…

Unless I can convince your mother to let me near her again.  In that case, you better be kind to The Middle child because you may soon join him in his plight.

But no matter what…know this…you boys are gifts from God, and your mother and I are blessed to have the privilege to share our lives with you.  The hopes and dreams we have for you are nothing compared to the joy that will be found in serving God with all your hearts and receiving the blessings He has stored up for you.

We love you.

Several months ago The Foo Fighters were on Austin City Limits.  I recorded the show and watch it from time to time.  It brought a tear to my eye, when a few months ago, while watching the show for the umteenth time, The Firstborn came running into the living room and said, “Oh daddy, who’s that?”

I replied, “That, buddy, is The Foo Fighters.”

To which he responded, “Oh I like them.”

He darted to his room and emerged with guitar in hand and said, “I need my pick.”

From that day on, when the stresses of being a toddler get to be too much, The Firstborn asks, “Dad, can we rock out with the Foo Fighters.”

*sniffle sniffle tear*

“Of course we can, son.”

To which he almost always says, “Alright.  I need my pick.  Stay right there.”

We now have the Subsequent Child in on the act and The Wife wishes we would take this show on the road.

We aren’t very good…yet.

Rock on little ones, rock on.

For more pictures of Band Practice, click here.

Now most sophisticated folks will do the easy thing and just hire a waste management company to come by the house once a week and pick up your trash for you…for a price.

But we-uns just ain’t that sophisticated.  The money we pay in county taxes also goes toward operating waste facilities and there’s an opportunity for adventure.

The opportunity for adventure hides just beneath the surface of everyday tasks for a 4 year old.

I asked The Firstborn if he wanted to be my helper and go the dump.  He was trying to contain his excitement when he asked, “Are we going to drive the truck?”

When I had answered him in the affirmative, he let out a resounding, “WooWhoo.”

I said, “Ok . Get your shoes and your jacket on and we can go.”

He then stopped in his tracks, spun around, and said to me with all the seriousness of a child twice his age,

But Papa, because of the sun I am also going to need my goggles.

Of course you do, son.  Of course you do.

The Firstborn’s mother hates it when I let the little ones wear whatever they want in public, but then again, it’s just the dump.

I tried to explain why daddy takes the trash to the dump and about why we pay taxes and how the founding fathers fought against the tyranny of taxes…at which point he said…

Just go superfast please.

I love little adventures like this.  I get to see the world through the slightly shaded goggles of a four year old and can appreciate being able to reach the gas pedal.

While most kids were planning their Saturday morning adventures into the newly created tundra, our kids were puking.

I won’t go int o the details.  I think the picture sums it up.

The Wife got up to answer the phone and then turned around to find this.

Poor little guy.

The Firstborn also tossed his cookies later that night, and then The Wife thought she would join the Puking Party.  She’s more than 6 months pregnant with The Latest Edition, so puking for her is a regular activity that pretty much goes undetected.

I have yet to loose my lunch, but then again, I stayed in the workshop all weekend playing with tools.

What?

I am not going near those Outbreak monkeys.

On a recent trip to the grocery store (in which the boys were in tow), a nice old lady commented to The Wife at what beautiful blond hair our  little GIRL had.  The Wife just smiled and corrected the sweet old lady with a gentle word and a slight chuckle.  Upon returning home, she informed me that The Subsequent child was mistaken for a girl….again.

It must be time for a haircut.

We aren’t big on haircuts around here.  My philosophy is this…

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 12 or 13 years of age, the boys will have to start working for a living.  (The Wife says more like 16, but we’ll see about that…)  So once they are  in the working world they will have to look clean, neat, and professional for the rest of their lives, so for now…let the hair go.  Who cares?

But as you can tell from the picture above, all the boys (including yours truly) could use at least a trim.  Between the mistaken gender, The Firstborn’s mullet development, and my having to wear a hat everyday to keep the hair under control, it was probably a good idea.

And just as a side note:

The last time I cut my hair was July 3, 2009.  I won a $10 bet by not cutting it for 6 months.  As for the beard, I shaved 20 minutes before this picture was taken.

The Wife infomed me that she needed some maternity jeans.

I asked her (as any normal loving husband would), “Aren’t those maternity jeans you are wearing now?”

She replied, “Yes, but these don’t fit right and they are uncomfortable.”

When you are pregnant, does anything fit right and aren’t you always uncomfortable?

That God’s way of convincing you to push that kid out.  You want to fit into your favorite blue jeans again and be able to sleep through the night.

Anyway, The Wife rarely shops for new clothes and since she is the mother of my children…she desreves a new pair of jeans.  How much could an article of clothing made of denim and spandex cost anyway?

*GASP*

Are you kidding me?  If my life depended on it…if I was being held against my will and my ticket to freedom was to estimate how much a pair of pregnant lady jeans cost…I would die…I would never take a breath as a free man again.

I couldn’t believe they could cost that much.

The Wife was putting on a good show at the Pregnant Lady Jean Store.  You know the whole, “I really like how comfortable these are, but we can’t pay that much….I guess I’ll just keep wearing these old ones that I hate and that cut off the circulation of blood to your unborn child” routine.

I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.  But I did tell her that for that price, I had better see her wear those everyday until this baby is born.

And after that I might squeeze into them and wear them myself…I mean they do have spandex around the stomach area.  Why don’t I have a pair?