Case in point

Here we have the perfect illustration of our problem...

It's Sunday, and our day looks nothing like the routine. We wake up at 8 a.m. (90 minutes later than normal) and Mike's out of bed before me. Mike has had plans to tailgate before the 49ers game for weeks. His excitement at grilling and playing poker with this best buds on a beautiful day in the Candlestick parking lot has escalated to near-Thanksgiving-like-proportions.

Before the coffee has finished brewing, Walt is here to pick up Mike and load the cooler, Webber, card table and folding chairs into his wagon.

This makes Marlo nuts. His anxiety about dad leaving is sky-high and he hasn't had his normal morning run. He gets a quick pee before the guys leave, then comes back inside with me so I can eat breakfast and shower for the day. 

I've got 3 things on my agenda: The school where I work is having a book swap at noon and I need to put in an appearance; my friend Sara is having a baby shower at 2 p.m. across town; and I must buy a gift for said shower from her registry at Target.

So around 11:30 I take Marlo out to run. It's hot and he's not super interested in going fast. I spend a lot of time waiting for him to sniff palm fronds and mark his ownership on lampposts and trees. When he seems tired enough, I bring him inside, fill his water bowl, fix my hair, and head down the hallway. He's immediately on my heels, so I detour into the front office where I pretend to use the computer while he settles down. I stand up again and he zooms to the door. I tell him to, "wait!" and ease myself out, locking the door behind me. As soon as I remove the key, the barking begins. I walk down the stairs and through the main house door. I press it closed behind me and stand there listening.  Sometimes the barks will stop quickly, and I pray they will today.  Instead, they grow louder, more tortured and desperate. The dog can wail! And then I hear a crack, ending any hope of my departure. As soon as I open the bottom door he is silent, so I walk back upstairs and enter the apartment. I see paint chips on the ground and new claw-tears on the door jam.

I spend a few minutes taking deep breaths and reminding myself that he is not TRYING to ruin my life, and I decide to navigate my day with him instead of solo.

Dogs aren't allowed at school, though, so I bring him a peanut butter-filled bone and tie him up outside the gate. Three minutes later the peaceful book fair is interrupted by his piercing bark. And again, and again. He won't touch the peanutbutter bone, and stands at attention, staring fiercely in my direction. I make my apologies and leave, and the not-trying-to-ruin-my-life-dog eagerly starts licking the bone as soon as I untie his leash.

Apparently I am a complete glutton for punishment, because we then walk to the car and drive to Target.  And then to Sara's house. The wailing and whining (despite a stop for water, bathroom and playtime) is insufferable. And so is the traffic. By the time we find a parking spot near the shower, he's inconsolable. I decide to run in the present (wrapped hastily in the car), make my second round of apologies, and run back out to take him home.

And here we sit, one of our hearts racing with frustration and anxiety, and the other happy and finally content, curled up on his armchair, asleep.