Here's a real empty nest syndrome move: I got a dog. Kids are pretty much out of the house, and I just really, really needed to have something to take care of and be responsible for.

Okay, I already have two cats, but they're CATS.

Rosie is a 3-year-old rescue from the Humane Society--a boxer. My friend down the street has had two boxers, and I guess I got hooked on the breed. They're prone to cancer and all manner of other ailments, and a 10-year-old boxer is positively ancient, but they are goofy, goofy, goofy and fun.

Someone cropped her ears and then didn't follow through, so as you can see, one of them turns backward over the top of her head, while the other one flops down. She has a droopy eye, and when the vet looked in her mouth, even he was aghast at the level of snaggle. She's had pups, and her teats flop around when she walks.

So it's not a great look--so what? These minor flaws, if you can even call them flaws, don't appear to have any effect whatsoever on Rosie's self-esteem. That's the good thing about dogs. Big dogs, little dogs, old dogs, three-legged dogs, dogs with scrofula . . . they're all dogs in the eyes of other dogs. No better, no worse, just turn around so I can sniff your butt.

And every morning when I wake up and throw my legs over the side of the bed, she is just thrilled that I am STILL ALIVE and that she's a STILL A DOG, by god. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.

It was Rosie or an increase on  antidepressants and an elliptical machine. Bless her heart--I can count on Rosie not to think it's a good idea to just sit on the couch and have another glass of wine instead of going for a walk. And if I do want to sit on the couch, I can count on her to think it's the best thing in the world to just sit there with me. With her 10-pound head in my lap.