We are a dog family. The first one, “Elvis”, was a chocolate brown lab that we got before our kids came along. He was adorable, friendly, goofy and fun. Kids stuck fingers in his nose. Pulled his tail. Sat on him. He didn’t care. He was a perfect family dog. A hunka-hunka-doggie love. Next came Beanie. A purebred Welsh Springer Spaniel, he lived for one person: my wife. That’s it. No one else mattered, no one else existed. He worshipped her and paid no attention to other human beings in the house. Though he was loved and constantly catered to, he lived only for her. Enter LuLu. A pit bull who (apparently) wouldn't fight - she was thrown from a bridge on the New Jersey Turnpike in a box, but somehow lived. She came to us 9 years ago from a friend working as a vet’s assistant, and where Beanie has been aloof and weird, LuLu has needed constant attention. She got it. The joke goes like this: “the relationship LuLu has with our sons is illegal in many southern states.” She’s entered the retirement phase of her life, but gets much attention and TLC. Like most rescue dogs, she knows it. She’s great. LuLu was preceded, briefly, by a PBGV. I’ll let you look it up. His name was Cecil. He now lives on a horse farm, runs a few acres every day, and isn’t causing heart attacks around our quiet neighborhood. Which is a good thing. Our latest is Mick. He’s pictured in the family room with LuLu. He was on the list to be… let’s not go there. But he’s been granted life with the Masons, and is in our house now for some 10-11 days. He’s not going anywhere. It’s déjà vu for the boys and me: Mick has one idol, follows her room-to-room, and won’t give us the time of day. One son calls him “The Shadow.” The other hates the name Mick and calls him “dog.” His master – my wife – loved him the moment he walked into the house. Merry Christmas!